The 

Passipnate 
Pilirim 


muel  MerxxMO 


^ 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 


•Kit.  OF  CAUF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELA 


Books  by  Samuel  Merwin 


The  Henry  Calverly  Sequence 

TEMPERAMENTAL  HENRY 

HENRY  IS  TWENTY 

THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

Other  Novels  and  Narratives 

THE  HONEY  BEE 
THE  TRUFFLERS 
THE  CITADEL 
HIS  LITTLE  WORLD 
THE  ROAD  BUILDERS 

Romances 

ANTHONY  THE  ABSOLUTE  ^ 

THE  CHARMED  LIFE  OF  MISS  AUSTIN 

THE  ROAD  TO  FRONTENAC 

THE  WHIP  HAND 

THE  MERRY  ANNE 

In  Collaboration  with  Henry  Kttchell  Webster 

CALUMET  K 

THE  SHORT-LINE  WAR 

COMRADE  JOHN 

An  Account  of  the  Opium  Traffic  in  China 
DRUGGING  A  NATION 


„,„. 


He  lifted  her  and  placed  her  in  the  big  chair. 


The  Passionate  Pilgrim 


Being  the  Narrative 

of  an  Oddly  Dramatic  Tear  in  the  Life  of 
Henry  Cafoerly, 


By 

SAMUEL  MERWIN 


JH.U8TRATID    BY 

STOCKTON  MULFORD 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1919 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  State*  of  4m0rfc« 


MIAUNWOttTH  A  CO. 
•OOK  MANUFACTVMtim 
I.VN.   M.   V. 


TO 

EDNA 

THIS  BOOK 


2131465 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  The  Young  Man  Called  Stanford,  or  Stafford, 
Makes  His  Appearance.  And  Mr.  Hitt  Thinks 
that  Biography  Might  After  All  Be  Better  .  .  1 

II  Indicating  Something  of  How  This  Mr.  Stanford, 
or  Stafford,  Appears  to  Feel  about  It.  With  a 
Foot-note  by  Margie  Daw 12 

III  In  Which  Mary  Maloney  Makes  Her  Appearance, 

Sitting  on  the  Top  Step 21 

IV  In   Which   Margie  Daw   Starts  after  the   Biggest 

Story  in  the  World 29 

V    Emotions  in  Alpaca 39 

VI    Of    a    Strange    Impulse    that    Calverly    Calls    the 

Power        43 

VII  Of  Friendship,  Love  and  the  Job  of  Living       .     .  52 

VIII  In  Which  Calverly  Sleeps  at  the  Union  Station       .  60 

IX  An  Interlude  in  Bedlam 66 

X  Of  a  Woman's  Heart  and  the  Web  of  Life  ...  75 

XI  Of  Mayors  and  Men  from  Mars 81 

XII  Indicating  That  a  Man  from  Mars  Would  Fare 
Rather  Better  in  Confining  His  Activities  to 
That  Planet 91 

XIII  The  Tide  of  Life  Runs  Low 100 

XIV  Ebb;  and  the  Turn 113 

XV    The  Honorable  Tim  Is  Perturbed  to  the  Point  of 

Protest.  And  Mr.  Quakers  Joins  the  Hunt    .     .     122 

XVI    Of  Ships,  a  Narrow  Door,  and  a  Young  Woman  in 

a  Wheel-Chair.  Also,  Briefly,  of  Mr.  Amme       .     130 

XVII  In  Which  Jim  Cantey  Speaks  from  the  Grave ;  and 
Calverly  Finds  that  He  Has  Got  to  Carry  Mi- 
riam Back 140 

XVIII  How  Mr.  Guard's  Stenographer  Went  to  Coney 
Island  Saturday  Evening.  And  How  Miss  Rus- 
sell Picked  Up  Ten  Dollars 153 


CONTENTS— Continued 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX    In  Which  Miriam  Stands  Alone 164 

XX    The  Fever  Called  Love 173 

XXI    Oswald  Quakers  Undertakes  to  Close  In     ...  181 

XXII    Concerned    with    the   Young    Man    Whose    Price 

Wasn't  Listed  Down-Town 190 

XXIII  Fat  Man's  Misery 202 

XXIV  Of  Publicity,  Liquor  and  Free  Will 207 

XXV    In  Which  a  Dream  Ends,  as  Dreams  Do       ...  214 

XXVI    The  Intervention  of  Mr.  Hitt,  Mr.  Holmes  Hitt, 

and  Perfect  Porcelain 231 

XXVII    Thinking  Perfect  Porcelain 238 

XXVIII    In  Which  Margie  Daw  Finds  Herself  Useful  as  a 

Stimulant 252 

XXIX    On  the  Topic  of  Killing  Writers 259 

XXX    What  Quakers  Said  to  the  Mayor 270 

XXXI    In  Which  Esther  and  Will  Appleby  Come  to  an 

Understanding  Regarding  the  One  Difficult  Topic  275 

XXXII    Quakers  Finds  the  Hour  Ripe 281 

XXXIII  The  Spirit  of  Jim  Cantey 289 

XXXIV  Of    the    Curious    Relationship    between    Perfect 

Porcelain  and  the  Divine  Fire 302 

XXXV    In  Which  Margie  Finds  Herself  Involved  in  the 

Greatest  Story 311 

XXXVI    Of  Creation  and  Coincidence 319 

XXXVII    In  Which  Hittie  Takes  a  Personal  Stand     ...  326 

XXXVIII    Of  Calverly's  Callers,  the  Library  at  the  Town 

Club,  and  Melodrama 335 

XXXIX    In  Which  the  Local  Napoleon  Undertakes  Some- 
thing in  the  Nature  of  a  Return  from  Elba    .     .  341 

XL    Events  of  an  Evening,  Including  a  Fight  and  a 
Pursuit,   with   a    Sidelight  on   How   Men   Feel 

about  Dying        349 


CONTENTS— Concluded 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XLI  Collateral  Matters ;  Including  Mr.  Amme's  Call  on 
Miriam,  Mr.  Hitt's  Activities,  and  Further  De- 
velopments of  the  Fever  Called  Love  ....  359 

XLII    On  the  Topic  of  What  May  Be  Done  with  Mayors. 

Leading  up  to  Something  of  a  Climax       .     .      .     368 

XLIII  In  Which  Miriam,  in  Attempting  to  State  Her 
Problem  Quite  Impersonally,  Arrives,  as 
Women  Are  Sometimes  Said  to  Do,  at  a  Rather 
Personal  Solution 375 

XLIV    Of  the  Meeting  in  Jim  Cantey's  Study.  Leading  up 

to  What  Happened  in  Cincinnati 383 

XLV  Mere  Business  Details ;  a  New  Publisher,  a  Still 
Newer  President  and  General  Manager,  and  the 
Beginning  of  a  Long  Fight.  A  Word,  Too, 
about  Hittie  and  the  Instinct  of  the  Race  .  .  392 

XLVI    Touching,  with  a  Smile,  on  Critics,  the  Pattern, 

and  Tennis 399 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 


The  Passionate  Pilgrim 

CHAPTER  ONE 

The  Young  Man  Called  Stanford,  or  Stafford,  Makes  His 

Appearance.    And  Mr.  Hitt  Thinks  That  Biography 

Might  After  Att  Be  Better 

IT  was  when  he  asked  the  elevator  boy  which  would  be 
the  editorial  floor  that  Mr.  Hitt  first  became  aware  of 
him;  perhaps  because  the  musical  quality  in  his  speaking 
voice  was  a  thought  out  of  the  common.  It  was  then,  too, 
just  as  the  car  started  deliberately  upward,  that  Margie 
Daw  pressed  her  elbow  against  Mr.  Hitt's  and  inclined  her 
head  discreetly  toward  the  man. 

He  stood  very  straight,  with  a  self-conscious  stiffening 
of  the  shoulders,  apparently  nervously  aware  of  the  others 
in  the  car  and  of  himself.  And  after  a  moment  of  rather 
absurd  hesitation  he  removed  his  hat.  The  little  act  marked 
him  at  once  as  a  stranger.  For  it  was  an  accepted  fact  in 
this  middle-western  city  that  a  hat  took  up  less  space  in  a 
crowded  elevator  when  on  the  head. 

He  was  thin,  sensitive,  somber ;  clean  shaven ;  wearing 
small  nose  glasses  with  a  cord.  His  clothes  were  wrinkled 
and  would  soon  be  shabby.  He  had  a  good  forehead,  and 
longish  brown  hair  that  strayed  down  toward  his  eyes.  Mr. 
Hitt  found  himself  studying  the  face.  He  thought  he  had 
seen  it  before. 

All  the  way  up  to  the  eighth  the  stranger  studied  the  floor 
numbers;  then  stepped,  hesitating,  out,  mumbling  "I  beg 
your  pardon!"  to  somebody  or  other  as  he  went.  Which 
made  him  further  conspicuous ;  for  they  didn't  beg  pardon 
much  in  the  News  building. 

Mr.  Hitt  then  realized  that  Miss  Daw  hadn't  got  out  at 
the  eighth,  but  was  riding  on  up  with  him.  He  was  glad 

1 


2  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

of  this.  The  past  few  years  of  his  working  life  had  been 
spent  in  the  long  room  up  under  the  roof,  one  twisting 
flight  above  what  the  elevator  boys  regarded  as  the  top 
floor,  that  was  known  variously  as  the  library  or  the 
"morgue."  The  reference  books  and  the  back  files  of  the 
paper  were  there,  as  were  also  the  cabinet  files,  arranged 
in  alcoves,  in  which  were  kept  the  down-to-date  obituaries 
or  condensed  biographies  of  all  prominent  persons  in  the 
city,  the  nation  and  the  world,  alphabetically  arranged  and 
ready  for  instant  use  in  the  event  of  death  or  other  con- 
spicuous occurrence  calling  sudden  attention  to  one  of  them. 
It  was  not  an  exciting  life  to  one  who  had  "covered,"  as  a 
seasoned  reporter,  any  number  of  national  conventions, 
great  catastrophes  and  riots,  who  had  been  night  city  editor 
and,  for  nearly  a  year,  Washington  correspondent;  and  he 
had  lately  come  to  count  that  day  forlorn  in  which  Margie 
failed  to  run  up-stairs  to  write  in  a  quiet  alcove,  or  look 
up  this  or  that,  or  sit  on  his  desk  to  steal  a  chat  and  a  fur- 
tive smoke. 

He  looked  down  at  her  now.  At  fifty-eight  a  man  may 
look  at  a  girl. 

She  might  have  been  a  fresh- faced  boy,  in  her  straight 
little  blue  coat  with  side  pockets  (hands  in  them,  of  course), 
a  pencil  held  within  the  breast  pocket  by  a  nickel  clip,  white 
shirt-waist  with  man's  turnover  collar  and  four-in-hand  tie, 
plain  felt  hat  pulled  down  over  her  round  forehead.  She 
looked  twenty-two  or  three,  and  might  have  been  at  this 
time — the  spring  of  1903 — twenty-five  or  six.  She  had 
brought  into  the  dingy  office  of  the  News,  two  years  back,  a 
touch  of  bright-colored  personality.  It  was  known  that  she 
had  begun  her  newspaper  career  as  a  petted,  precocious 
special  correspondent  in  London,  and  that  at  one  time  she 
had  lowered  Nellie  Ely's  speed  record  around  the  world. 
It  was  understood  that  she  had  been  on  the  stage,  some- 
where out  on  the  Pacific  Coast,  and  that  she  had  acquired, 
and  discarded,  two  husbands.  For  the  News  she  wrote 
signed  "features"  and  occasional  "sob  stories." 

In  the  "morgue,"  with  the  door  safely  shut,  she  first 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  3 

foraged  over  Mr.  Hitt's  desk  for  a  match  and  lighted  a 
cigarette;  then  remarked — 

"You  get  him,  don't  you,  Hittie?" 

"  'Get  him  ?'  You  mean  that  young  fellow  ?  Why  no, 
not  quite.  There's  something  about  him — " 

"  'Something  about  him !'  Good  God,  Hittie,  don't  tell 
me  you  don't  know  Henry  Calverly  when  you  see  him!" 

"Oh !"  breathed  Mr.  Hitt,  softly,  and  sank  into  his  swivel 
chair.  .  .  .  "Oh!" 

"He's  here  under  the  name  of  Stanford,  or  Stafford.  The 
idea  of  his  dreaming  he  could  get  away  with  it!  On  a 
newspaper,  of  all  places !  Timothy  says  they're  putting 
him  in  my  room.  They  moved  a  desk  in  there  this  morning." 

"What's  he  to  do?" 

"Apparently  act  as  assistant  play  reviewer  under  Archie 
Trent,  and  do  books  for  Will  Bevan." 

"Do  they  know  who  he  is  ?" 

Margie  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  believe  any  of  them  do. 
Men  are  stupid."  She  smoked  reflectively.  "I  don't  know 
as  you  can  blame  him  for  taking  another  name.  The  poor 
devil  would  have  to  do  something.  But  getting  a  job  on  a 
newspaper!  He  should  have  gone  off — the  Klondike  or 
somewhere." 

"Wait  a  moment,  Margie !  There  was  a  book — a  romance 
— by  one  Hugh  Stafford,  last  year.  Will  Bevan  sent  it  up 
here  to  be  reviewed.  The  scene  of  that  book  was  north- 
western Canada.  And  it  seems  to  me  I  recall  a  story  to  the 
effect  that  Henry  Calverly  went  to  Alaska  after  his  release, 
something  that  got  into  the  papers.  You  see,  a  man  can 
run  off — to  Alaska,  China,  Africa — and  stay  a  year,  two 
years,  three  years,  but  he  comes  back.  There's  a  limit  to  it." 

There  was  a  small  row  of  books  at  the  back  of  the  desk, 
favorite  volumes — the  Bab  Ballads,  that  earlier,  English  Cal- 
verly's  Verses  and  Fly  Leaves,  Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills 
and  Soldiers  Three,  the  Essays  of  Elia,  DeQuincey  in  two 
small  leather-bound  volumes,  and  Henry  Calverly's  Satraps 
of  the  Simple. 

Mr.  Hitt  reached  for  the  last  named,  and  turned  the  pages. 


4  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"It's  curious,"  he  remarked,  a  few  moments  later,  "that 
a  young  fellow  could  produce  such  a  book,  shake  the  world 
with  it — he  did  that,  you  know — " 

Margie  nodded.  "Oh,  I  know !  I  had  some  of  the  stories 
by  heart,  five  or  six  years  ago.  'Roc's  Eggs.  Strictly  Fresh' ; 
I  loved  that !  And  'AH  Anderson  and  the  Four  Policemen.'  " 

"It's  been  a  question  in  my  mind,"  said  Mr.  Hitt,  "whether 
'Sinbad  the  Treasurer'  isn't  the  finest  short  story  in  the  lan- 
guage. And  if  it  isn't,  then  'A  Curbstone  Barmecide'  is." 

"I  like  'Roc's  Eggs,'  Hittie." 

"So  do  I.  But  I  was  about  to  say — it's  curious  that  a 
young  fellow  could  produce  such  a  book — he  was  only 
twenty  or  twenty-one,  you  remember — and  then  lose  his  hold 
completely.  This  'Hugh  Stafford'  novel  had  no  value." 

"It  was  the  trial  that  knocked  him,  and  all  he  went 
through.  Isn't  genius  usually  rather  fragile,  Hittie?" 

"Often,  naturally.  He  looks  sensitive.  His  case  suggests 
that  of  Hugo  Wolf,  the  composer  of  songs.  He  had  periods 
of  intense  creative  activity  and  between  them,  periods  when 
he  was  unable  to  produce  at  all.  As  I  recall  the  story,  he 
finally  went  mad.  Apparently,  a  man  who  is  so  highly  sensi- 
tized as  to  become,  at  times,  a  medium  through  which  genius 
can  find  expression  is  lacking  in  the  commoner,  sturdier 
qualities.  It  has  to  be  genius  or  nothing  with  him.  And 
then,  as  you  say,  the  painful  tragedy  this  boy  went  through 
evidently  crushed  him." 

Margie  knocked  the  ash  from  her  cigarette  to  his  pen  tray 
with  a  small  white  finger. 

"You're  talking  well  this  morning,  Hittie,"  she  remarked. 

He  glanced  up,  a  thought  suspiciously,  but  found  her  al- 
most demure. 

"Quoting  from  your  novel,  I  suspect." 

He  moved  his  head  in  the  negative;  smiled  a  little.  He 
was  a  patient-looking  man,  with  the  settled  lines  of  age  about 
his  mouth.  He  wore  a  cropped  white  mustache  and  old- 
fashioned  gold-rimmed  spectacles.  He  was  quite  bald.  The 
eyes  behind  the  spectacles  bespoke  a  shrewd  but  unassertive 
mind. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  5 

"Let  me  borrow  the  book,  Hittie.  I  want  to  read  it  again. 
And  don't  waste  time  on  that  novel.  Write  history.  Or 
biography.  How  about  the  life  of  Jim  Cantey?  Won't 
somebody  be  getting  that  job  pretty  soon?  It's  more  than 
a  year  since  he  died." 

"I  don't  know.    I  must  say  I  haven't  thought  of  it." 

"Why  don't  you  speak  to  Mr.  Listerly.  He'll  have  some- 
thing to  say  about  it,  won't  he  ?" 

"Very  likely.  But  why  am  I  not  to  do  the  novel,  Mar- 
gie?" 

"You're  too  old.  I  mean  it  kindly,  Hittie.  But  there's  no 
use  lying  about  these  real  things.  It's  the  young  ones — 
people  with  fire  in  them — "  She  tapped  the  book.  "They 
can  do  it."  The  cigarette  was  finished.  She  slid  off  the 
desk ;  brushed  a  bit  of  ash  from  her  skirt ;  looked  at  him. 

"There's  one  recent  novelist  that  we  both  admire,  Margie, 
who  began  in  his  sixties." 

"Yes,  but  he'd  made  pottery." 

Mr.  Hitt  knit  his  brows  over  this.  Margie  often  seemed 
to  him  irrelevant,  or  at  least  cryptic. 

"Wagner  be>gan  Parsifal  at  sixty-four,"  he  said. 

"My  dear  old  Hittie,  Wagner  began  Parsifal  when  he  be- 
gan composing  operas." 

She  picked  up  Henry  Calverly's  one  great  book. 

"What  a  career!"  she  mused  aloud.  "Just  a  boy  and 
famous  overnight.  And  then  crushed  flat.  And  still  under 
thirty." 

She  turned  to  go,  pausing  only  to  say  this : 

"Hittie,  why  doesn't  some  really  great  novelist  come 
along  and  tell  the  truth  about  women?  Are  they  all  cow- 
ards? Or  don't  they  know?" 

Mr.  Hitt  gazed  helplessly  at  her.  She  smiled,  gave  him  a 
little  bob  of  the  head,  and  went  out. 

An  hour  or  so  later,  when  his  desk  was  clear,  Mr.  Hitt 
found  the  little  scene  in  the  elevator  coming  clear  as  a  pic- 
ture in  his  mind.  He  could  see  again  the  somber,  sensitive, 
rather  shabby  youth,  so  oddly,  almost  assertively  self-con- 
scious among  the  workaday  group  in  the  car.  He  sat  for 


6  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

a  time,  considering  the  situation.  It  brought  a  mild  thrill, 
the  mere  fact  that  the  man  should  be  here,  working  under 
the  same  roof.  He  even,  after  a  time,  went  over  to  one  of 
the  filing  cabinets,  opened  the  deep  drawer  labeled  "Cah- 
Cam,"  and  drew  out  the  folder  marked  "Henry  Calverly." 
He  moved  to  the  window  and  looked  through  the  collec- 
tion of  newspaper  clippings  and  typewritten  memoranda. 
On  top  lay  a  typed  script,  bound  with  a  wire  clip.  It  bore 
the  heading,  "Henry  Calverly — Obit."  He  glanced  through 
the  twelve  or  fifteen  pages.  He  recalled  writing  it  back  in 
1899.  For  that  matter,  the  date  was  marked  in  pencil. 
Nothing  had  been  added  since  because  Henry  Calverly,  after 
his  sudden  fame  and  his  equally  sudden  and  complete  igno- 
miny, had  disappeared,  dropped  out  of  life.  Except  for  the 
gossip  that  he  had  drifted  to  Alaska ;  that  was  represented 
by  a  clipping,  but  he  had  not  thought  it  worth  writing  into 
the  obituary.  He  read  this  through,  now. 

Henry  Calverly  (it  ran)  was  born  in  Sunbury,  Ills.,  No- 
vember 7th,  1877.  He  first  became  prominent  in  1898,  when 
his  collection  of  short  stories  entitled  Satraps  of  the  Sim- 
pie,  after  being  published  originally  in  the  Sunbury  Weekly 
Gleaner,  of  which  he  was  part  owner,  reappeared  in  an 
eastern  magazine  and  later  in  book  form.  The  instant  suc- 
cess of  these  stories  made  him  for  a  brief  time  perhaps  the 
most  conspicuous  literary  figure  in  the  English-speaking 
world.  His  art  was  frequently  compared  by  competent  crit- 
ics with  that  of  the  greatest  living  writers.  The  book  was 
translated  into  virtually  every  European  language.  Phrases 
from  his  gifted  pen  found  their  way  into  the  language.  The 
English  critics  agreed,  in  the  main,  with  those  of  Amer- 
ica that  the  book  would  stand  as  the  truest  and  most  bril- 
liant portrayal  extant  of  small-town  life  in  America. 

Then  followed  several  pages  of  quotations  from  critical 
appreciations  of  his  work ;  after  which  came  this : 

Shortly  after  the  appearance  of  his  book,  when  he  was 
barely  twenty-one,  Calverly  married  Cicely  Hamlin,  who 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  7 

had  come  to  Sunbury  as  the  niece  and  ward  of  Madame 
Watt,  as  she  was  then  known.  A  few  months  after  the  wed- 
ding, Madame  Watt,  who  had  previously  exhibited 
indications  of  an  ungoverned  temper,  killed  her  husband, 
the  former  U.  S.  Senator,  Hon.  William  M.  Watt,  during 
the  dinner  hour  in  their  home,  as  the  result  of  a  violent 
altercation.  The  young  Mrs.  Calverly,  who  was  dining 
there,  was  the  sole  witness  of  the  tragedy. 

The  resulting  trial  was  probably  the  most  dramatic  and 
the  most  widely  reported  murder  case  in  American  history. 
Senator  Watt  had  been  known  for  fifteen  years  as  author  of 
and  legislative  sponsor  for  the  Watt  Currency  Act,  which 
at  the  time  of  its  passage  through  Congress  threatened  to 
create  a  deep  schism  between  the  eastern  states  and  the 
western.  For  some  years  prior  to  his  marriage  with  Mad- 
ame Watt,  or  the  Comtesse  de  la  Plaine,  as  she  was  then 
known,  he  had  lived  in  obscurity. 

It  came  out  at  the  trial  that  the  Comtesse  de  la  Plaine, 
whose  name  was  familiar  to  newspaper  readers  everywhere 
as  that  of  a  woman  of  wealth  and  highly  colored  personality, 
prominent  at  Paris,  Nice,  Monte  Carlo  and  Rome,  had  be- 
gun life  as  one  Fanny  Brown  in  a  small  Illinois  village  on 
the  bank  of  the  Mississippi.  This  village  has  since  crum- 
bled into  the  river.  Her  father  was  a  ne'er-do-well  and 
drunkard,  her  mother  little  better.  Fanny  Brown  herself 
drifted  early  into  evil  ways  and  at  the  age  of  sixteen  or  sev- 
enteen, left  home  in  company  with  a  traveling  salesman. 
For  some  years  she  appears  to  have  led  the  life  of  an  ad- 
venturess in  eastern  cities,  at  length  becoming  mistress  to  a 
secretary  or  attache  of  one  of  the  European  legations  at 
Washington.  This  led  to  her  traveling  abroad,  where,  after 
many  vicissitudes,  she  became  companion  to,  and  later  wife 
of,  the  famous  Comte  de  la  Plaine.  During  the  trial  the 
prosecution  succeeded  in  introducing  evidence  to  the  effect 
that  she  had  tricked  the  comte  into  marrying  her  by  brib- 
ing his  physician  to  pronounce  her  on  her  death  bed.  At 
all  events,  through  the  marriage  and  the  subsequent  death 
of  the  comte,  she  came  into  a  large  fortune,  including  the 


8  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

famous  Chateau  de  Clumency,  which  she  sold  at  the  time 
of  her  departure  from  France. 

It  was  further  brought  out  at  the  trial  that  Cicely  Hamlin 
was  not  her  niece  but  her  daughter,  born  during  her  life 
with  the  comte  but  before  their  marriage. 

Her  second  marriage,  to  Senator  Watt,  took  place  during 
what  appeared  to  be  a  campaign  conducted  by  the  woman  to 
establish  herself  first  in  New  York,  and  later  in  Sunbury, 
Ills.,  as  a  person  of  reputable  character.  It  was  established 
that  she  paid  Senator  Watt  the  sum  of  $10,000  to  marry  her. 

As  Mrs.  Calverly  was  the  sole  eye-witness  of  the  mur- 
der, the  prosecution  compelled  her  to  testify  against  the 
woman  that  she  had  just  learned  was  her  mother.  The  expe- 
rience told  on  her  so  severely  that  her  husband  on  one  occa- 
sion made  a  scene  in  court,  charging  that  they  were  slowly 
torturing  her  to  death.  The  incident  was  widely  commented 
on  at  the  time.  She  fell  ill  during  the  trial,  and  was  put 
under  the  care  of  physicians,  until  finally,  apparently  in  a 
frenzy  of  apprehension  for  her  health  and  sanity,  during  the 
most  dramatic  period  of  the  trial,  Calverly  abducted  her. 

They  were  sought  for  everywhere  in  the  United  States, 
Canada  and  Mexico.  Steamships  were  watched  at  Atlantic 
and  Pacific  ports.  Rewards  were  offered  for  their  discov- 
er}'. Their  pictures  were  published  in  every  city,  town  and 
hamlet. 

After  nearly  a  fortnight,  during  which  the  trial  was  vir- 
tually blocked,  they  were  found  by  newspaper  men  in  a 
cabin  in  the  woods  of  Northern  Michigan,  where  Calverly 
was  caring  for  her  alone,  even  cooking  their  food,  in  a  deter- 
mined effort  to  restore  her  health.  They  were  promptly 
brought  back,  and  Mrs.  Calverly  was  called  again  to  the 
stand.  She  fell  ill  again,  became  delirious,  was  taken  to  a 
Chicago  hospital,  and  died  there  a  few  weeks  later,  of  quick 
consumption. 

The  case  ended  in  a  qualified  acquittal  for  Madame  Watt. 
Apparently,  in  spite  of  the  almost  fabulous  cost  of  her  de- 
fense, she  had  managed  to  save  some  considerable  portion 
of  her  wealth,  for  she  withdrew  at  once  to  a  lonely  spot 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  9 

north  of  Chicago  on  the  shore  of  Lake  Michigan  and  there 
built  for  herself  a  castle  of  stone,  modeled,  it  was  said,  on  a 
part  of  the  castle  of  Chinon  in  France. 

Calverly,  though  the  prosecuting  attorney  seems  not  to 
have  acted  vigorously  in  the  matter,  was,  indeed,  quoted  as 
urging  clemency,  was  sentenced  by  the  judge  to  six  months' 
imprisonment  in  the  state  penitentiary  for  obstruction  of 
justice.  On  his  release,  his  wife  dead,  his  own  nerves  nearly 
shattered,  apparently,  he  managed  to  elude  the  numerous 
reporters  and  photographers  who  went  down  from  Chicago 
to  interview  him,  and  disappeared. 

Mr.  Hitt  lowered  the  paper ;  stood  for  a  brief  while  think- 
ing it  over;  then  replaced  it  in  the  folder  and  returned  to 
the  cabinet. 

It  was  quite  a  story.  But  it  was,  after  all,  life,  as  Mr. 
Hitt  had  seen  it  during  his  thirty-five  years  as  a  newspaper 
man.  Life,  indeed,  he  had  found,  ran  that  way — to  bold 
drama,  not  infrequently  to  melodrama.  He  could  seldom 
feel  reality  in  the  pallid  works  of  fiction  that  Will  Bevan 
sent  up,  now  and  then,  to  be  reviewed  in  odd  moments ; 
mostly  more  or  less  deft  rearrangements  of  familiar  booky 
characters  and  situations,  workings-out  of  the  reasons  why 
the  particular  he  and  the  particular  she  decided  to  marry. 
He  dealt  not  unkindly  with  these,  but  always  with  a  sigh 
for  the  books  that  didn't  seem  able  to  get  themselves  writ- 
ten, the  books  he  himself  hungered  for.  These  books  would 
have  to  stir  with  the  mighty  pulse  of  life  as  it  throbbed 
nightly  through  the  city  room  down-stairs.  There,  he  felt, 
was  reality — love  and  hate,  jealousy  and  murder,  the  unex- 
pected, complicated,  often  bizarre,  entanglements  of  life;  the 
desperate  upward  struggle  of  the  laboring  poor ;  corruption 
undermining  complacency  ;  wrecks,  fires,  earthquakes,  strikes 
and  all  the  dramas  that  hang  about  them  and  trail  after 
them!  The  endless  film  of  life,  he  had  come  to  feel,  was 
run  off  fairly  before  his  eyes  every  night.  He  saw,  with  the 
single  purpose  of  the  practical  reporter,  industrial  kings, 
ramp?,  politicians,  fine  ladies,  sweatshop  workers,  promot- 


10  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

ers,  lynchers,  reformers,  street  walkers,  athletes,  preachers, 
gamblers,  dynamiters,  mayors,  actresses  and  presidents.  To 
the  seasoned  newspaper  man  they  were  all  alike.  They 
strutted  or  stepped  urbanely  or  skulked  by.  Their  destiny 
as  public  figures  was  measured  in  lines,  stick fuls  or  columns. 
Some  were  born  to  page  six,  among  local  mention.  A  few 
found  their  level  on  page  five,  opposite  editorial.  That 
would  be  Society  and  Dramatic,  or  Minor  Obit.  An  occa- 
sional one,  with  abnormal  or  supernormal  gifts,  such  as  that 
extremely  vigorous  man,  the  president,  or  a  certain  amazing 
actress,  or  this  Henry  Calverly  who  had  drifted  so  ignobly 
into  the  building — one  with  the  gift,  or  the  fatality,  of  con- 
spicuousness — had  to  meet  his  final  fame  or  disaster  on 
page  one.  .  .  .  Here  was  the  stuff  of  fiction,  here  in  the 
morgue  and  in  the  back  files  of  the  paper.  For  life  was  here. 
And  what  was  fiction  to  be  if  not  life? 

He  sighed  as  he  replaced  the  folder  and  closed  the  drawer. 

His  eyes  rested  on  a  label  higher  in  the  cabinet,  "Can- 
Cat."  He  opened  it ;  ran  through  the  folders  to  the  first  of 
several  marked,  "James  H.  Cantey." 

There,  now,  was  a  figure,  and  a  life ! 

That  was  a  shrewd  enough  suggestion  of  Margie's.  Per- 
haps he  was  too  old  to  begin.  But  biography ! 

He  carried  all  the  Cantey  folders  to  his  desk  and  dipped 
eagerly  into  the  mass  of  printed  and  typewritten  data  within. 

Jim  Cantey  was  an  heroic  figure,  worlds  away  from  the 
unlucky  Calverly.  He  had  been  a  local  boy,  and  had  kept 
his  residence  here,  on  the  Hill,  despite  a  life  spent  mostly 
in  his  private  car,  or  on  one  of  his  ships,  or  in  his  New 
York  offices,  or  in  Europe.  Years  back,  for  some  reason, 
he  had  purchased  the  News  and  put  Mr.  Listerly  in  as 
publisher.  The  Cantey  Estate  owned  it  now. 

Mr.  Hitt's  color  rose  a  little  as  he  went  through  the  pa- 
pers, and  his  eyes  brightened. 

Jim  Cantey  was  a  big  man.  There  was  epic  stuff  here. 
Though  they'd  hardly  let  you  tell  it ;  not  the  real  story  of  his 
fight.  There  would  be  family  influences,  and  impenetrably 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  11 

correct  lawyers,  and  persons  from  banks.  The  wonderful 
rough  vitality  of  the  man  would  have  to  be  ironed  out.  You 
would  have  to  erect  a  false  person  in  literary  plaster  of 
Faris,  calm  and  benign  of  countenance,  hand  thrust  in 
breast  of  coat,  as  nearly  as  possible  like  all  the  other  false 
public  presentments  of  creatures  that  were  once  head- 
strong, generous,  fighting,  sinning,  wonderful  men. 

But  an  hour  later  he  was  still  at  it.     He  had  forgotten 
the  unfortunate  young  man  down-stairs. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

Indicating  Something  of  How  This  Mr.  Stanford,  or  Staf- 
ford, Appears  to  Feel  about  It.    With  a  Foot-note 
by  Margie  Daiv 

ALONG  one  wall  of  the  large,  crowded  "city  room"  ex- 
tended a  row  of  coop-like  rooms  behind  a  seven- foot 
partition  of  ground  glass  and  wood,  in  which  labored  the 
somewhat  favored  individuals  who  headed  editorial  depart- 
ments or  wrote  signed  "features." 

At  about  twenty  minutes  to  six  by  the  round  white  clock 
above  the  city  editor's  horseshoe  desk,  the  door  labeled  "Fi- 
nance and  Real  Estate"  opened  and  Abel  H.  Timothy  ap- 
peared, buttoning  his  slightly  spotted  blue  coat  across  his 
plump  person.  His  wide,  rather  friendly  mouth  fitted  com- 
fortably about  a  long  unlighted  cigar  on  which  was  a  red- 
and-gold  band,  doubtless  the  gift  of  some  one  of  the  invest- 
ment bankers  with  whom  Abel  was  much  thrown.  His 
wide  soft  hat  was  tipped  genially  on  his  large  head. 

Half-way  along  the  row  he  paused,  glanced  about  the  busy 
room  guardedly,  removed  his  cigar,  straightened  his  crim- 
son necktie,  and  opened  a  few  inches  the  door  labeled,  first, 
"Features,"  and  then,  under  that,  in  smaller  letters,  "Miss 
Daw." 

"Hello,  Marge,"  he  murmured,  through  the  opening.  "Are 
you  eating  a  bite  ?" 

Margie  Daw  looked  up  from  her  typewriter,  glanced 
about,  as  if  from  habit  at  the  two  desks  nearer  the  window, 
which  were,  at  the  moment,  closed,  and  then  turned  an 
almost  demure  face  toward  the  corner  behind  the  door. 

Abel  leaned  in,  peered  around. 

There,  at  a  small  desk,  bending  intently  forward  over  a 
few  sheets  of  copy  paper  on  which  he  had  apparently  been 
drawing  aimless  diagrams  and  absurd  faces  of  tramps  and 

12 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  13 

angels,  in  an  old  alpaca  office  coat  that  had  been  worn  clear 
through  at  the  elbows,  sat  a  strange  young  man. 

Abel's  eyes  opened  wide  in  a  mock  stare,  his  under  lip 
pressed  its  upper  nearly  against  the  somewhat  flat  nose 
above  it.  ^ 

Margie  tapped  the  paper  in  her  machine. 

"I've  got  to  finish  this/'  she  said. 

Abel's  mouth  formed  a  silent,  "Oh!"  Then  aloud,  he 
said,  "I'll  be  over  at  Philippe's."  After  which  he  softly 
closed  the  door,  replaced  his  cigar,  smoothed  his  coat,  and 
went  on  out  to  the  elevator. 

Margie's  typewriter,  ticked  busily  for  as  much  as  five 
minutes.  Then,  as  she  removed  a  sheet  of  paper,  she  looked 
around  at  the  young  man  in  the  corner. 

At  that  moment  he  raised  his  eyes. 

"Nearly  six  o'clock,"  she  said,  pleasantly  enough,  but  un- 
able wholly  to  conceal  the  curiosity  in  her  eyes. 

He  was  not  looking  at  her,  he  seemed  to  be  intent  on 
something  outside  the  window.  She  was  not  even  sure  that 
he  heard  until,  after  a  long  pause,  he  replied,  vaguely: 

"Oh,  is  it  as  late  as  that  ?" 

She  nodded.  "I'll  have  to  run  out.  We  pick  up  a  bite 
when  we  can  here.  If  we  don't  get  it  early,  we're  likely  not 
to  get  it  at  all." 

He  made  no  reply  to  this.    A  thought  nettled,  she  added : 

"Of  course,  I  don't  know  what  work  they've  given  you." 

"They  haven't  given  me  any,"  said  he,  and  sighed. 

Margie  glanced  out  the  window ;  then  turned  back  to  the 
machine,  lifted  the  carriage  as  if  to  examine  the  ribbon ; 
considered. 

"Haven't  you  got  a  typewriter?"  she  asked. 

"No.    I  couldn't  use  one,  anyhow." 

"But  you'll  have  to,  I  should  think.  They  don't  like  to 
take  longhand." 

He  had  no  reply  to  this.    He  seemed  quite  helpless. 

A  moment  more,  and  she  heard  him  push  back  his  chair. 

For  a  time  he  stood  between  chair  and  desk,  gazing  for- 
lornly at  the  wall. 


14  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

Margie,  covertly  watching  him,  found  her  shoulder  draw- 
ing up  in  a  quick  little  shiver.  What  was  the  matter  with 
him?  Why  didn't  he  move? 

At  length,  still  gazing  at  the  wall,  he  took  off  the  alpaca 
coat  and  hung  it  beside  his  street  coat.  Still  hesitating,  he 
reached  up,  took  the  alpaca  coat  down  again  and  put  it  on, 
picked  up  his  hat ;  and  stood  by  the  door. 

"I  was  wondering — "  he  began.  "I'm  not  familiar  with 
this  part  of  town — perhaps  you  could  tell  me  where  the 
people  here  get  their  supper." 

She  replied  in  an  almost  snappy  tone : 

"A  good  many  go  to  Philippe's,  around  in  the  alley.  But 
the  Buffalo  Lunch  is  as  near  and  cheaper.  I  was  just  going 
around  there.  I'll  show  you  the  way."  And  as  she  sprang 
up  and  reached  for  her  own  little  jacket,  she  added,  "But  I 
wouldn't  wear  that  coat  if  I  were  you." 

She  saw  him  look  uncomprehendingly  down ;  saw  the  red 
color  surge  over  his  face;  and  herself  moved  to  the  door. 

"Meet  you  at  the  elevator,"  she  said  briskly,  and  rushed 
out. 

He  walked  stiffly  by  her  side  around  a  corner  into  a  side 
street.  Margie,  who  had  chatted,  at  her  ease,  with  presidents 
of  insurance  companies,  wife-beaters,  pickpockets  and  belted 
earls,  found  it  difficult  to  keep  the  conversation  barely  alive. 
Though  he  replied  once  or  twice,  she  wasn't  sure  that  he 
heard  all  she  said. 

The  Buffalo  Lunch  was  conducted  on  the  "cafeteria"  plan. 
You  went  to  various  counters  for  your  food  and  carried  it 
yourself  to  a  row  of  chairs  each  of  which  had  one  wide 
arm  that  served  for  a  table. 

At  the  doorway  the  young  man  stopped  short,  studying 
the  crowded,  chattering  interior  from  under  knit  brows. 
Margie  stood  on  the  step,  tapping  one  foot. 

Finally  he  said,  "I  don't  really  want  much.  Just  a  cup 
of  coffee,  I  guess.  I — I'm  not  very  hungry." 

The  price  list,  a  large  placard,  was  hung  on  a  column  just 
within  the  door.  She  saw  now  that  his  eyes  were  bent  on  it. 

Once  within,  she  took  him  in  charge,  getting  price  slips 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  15 

for  both,  leading  him  to  the  counters  and  elbowing 
a  way  for  him  through  the  crowd.  When  she  had  her  hot 
roast  beef  sandwich  and  coffee  and  he  his  coffee  and  roll, 
she  led  him  to  a  post  before  two  chairs  whose  occupants 
seemed  nearly  through,  and  there  they  stood,  nibbling  at 
their  food,  awaiting  their  turn.  She  was  recovering  her- 
self now ;  she  talked  continuously,  in  a  confidential  tone. 

"I  heard  you  were  going  to  work  for  Trent  and  Bevan 
both,"  she  remarked,  as  they  stepped  out  on  the  street. 

"Well — something  like  that.  They  haven't  told  me  much 
yet." 

"You'll  have  your  troubles.  Bevan's  all  right  when  he's 
sober.  When  he's  drunk  a  little  he'll  crowd  you.  Al- 
ways gets  very  busy  and  exacting.  Wants  to  make  people 
think  he's  sober.  And  don't  forget  to  praise  any  shows  you 
may  review  for  Trent." 

"Why,  I  don't  see  how  I  can  do  that,  unless — " 

"Oh,  find  something  to  praise.    Velvet  on  your  hammer." 

"But  if  criticism  means  anything,  it — " 

"Criticism  doesn't  mean  anything.  Praise  means  adver- 
tising. And,  besides,  Archie  Trent's  got  his  own  fences  to 
look  after." 

"Oh!"  he  breathed,  deep  in  thought  "Oh!  ...  I 
never  thought  of  that." 

"My  dear  Mr. — Mr.  Stafford,  you're  in  a  rough  world. 
You've  got  to  keep  your  wits  about  you." 

"So  it  seems,"  said  he,  bitterly. 

She  caught  his  sleeve  and  drew  him  off  the  crowded  side- 
walk into  a  doorway. 

"Look  here!"  she  said.  "I  don't  want  to  see  you  get  in 
wrong  the  first  thing.  It's  lucky  for  you  you're  in  my 
room.  The  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  bring  your  troubles  to 
me.  I've  got  a  trained  ear.  Until  you  learn  the  ropes,  you 
know." 

"That's  kind  of  you,"  he  murmured. 

"Not  particularly.    But  I  can  help  you." 

*Tm  sure  you  can.  You  see  I'm  not  used  to — my  life  has 
been  so  very — everything's  been  so  different — " 


16  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

He  clamped  his  lips  shut.  A  frightened  expression  crept 
in  about  his  eyes.  He  turned  away. 

"Guess  I'll  take  a  little  walk,"  he  remarked.  "I  suppose 
a  few  minutes  more  or  less  don't  matter." 

And  he  rushed  off. 

He  went  across  town  to  the  central  post-office,  walking 
more  and  more  rapidly,  his  face  drawn  with  nervous  ten- 
sion. He  was  in  a  perspiration  when  he  reached  the  grimy 
old  building.  At  the  general  delivery  window  he  asked  if 
there  was  mail  for  H.  Calverly. 

The  clerk  gave  a  slight  start,  looked  narrowly  at  him,  and 
as  he  turned  away  to  the  box,  knit  his  brows  as  one  does 
who  tries  to  recapture  a  half-lost  bit  of  memory.  He  re- 
turned with  a  letter. 

It  was  addressed  in  a  familiar  hand — small,  clear,  almost 
like  print.  Henry  turned  it  over.  The  back  stamp  was 
nearly  forty-eight  hours  old.  Then  he  felt  the  clerk's  eyes 
on  him  and  hurried  away.  He  opened  the  letter  on  the 
street. 

It  read : 

"Dear  Old  Hen!  It  was  great  to  hear  from  you.  I 
haven't  time  to  write  a  letter  now,  but  perhaps  can  do  bet- 
ter. Have  to  be  in  Cincinnati  on  the  14th.  Will  take  train 
arriving  your  town,  Union  Station,  10:50  p.  M.,  on  the  13th. 
Will  be  there  about  an  hour  if  on  time,  taking  Cincinnati 
train  at  12:01.  Wire  me  here.  We'll  have  a  few  minutes' 
chat  anyway. 

"Yours  as  ever, 

"H.  W." 

He  carefully  tore  up  note  and  envelope  into  small  bits  and 
dropped  them  in  a  street-sweeper's  cart.  The  color  was 
rising  in  his  face. 

He  wondered,  on  the  way  back  to  the  office,  if  he  could 
get  away.  It  was  too  late  to  telegraph,  of  course.  Without 
that  message,  he  wondered,  would  his  friend  come? 

He  asked  Miss  Daw  what  he  ought  to  do  about  leaving 
early. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  17 

"You're  not  supposed  to  be  on  the  city  staff,  are  you?" 
she  asked.  "Then  I'd  wait.  If  Trent  doesn't  give  you  a 
show,  there's  no  sense  in  waiting  around.  You  can  do  Be- 
van's  work  in  your  own  time." 

Trent  did  not  give  him  a  show ;  and  by  ten-thirty  he  was 
waiting  at  the  train  gate. 

Humphrey  Weaver — tall,  lean,  well-clad,  carrying  his  own 
bags  through  the  swarm  of  porters — came  deliberately  down 
the  platform,  his  swarthy  face  wrinkling  into  a  grin  that 
faded  a  little  as  his  quick  gaze  took  in  the  thin  figure  in  the 
wrinkled  old  suit. 

They  sat  in  the  waiting-room  and  tried  to  talk.  But  there 
were  difficulties. 

They  had  been  friends  years  back,  in  Sunbury,  Illinois. 
Humphrey  had  taken  the  boy  out  of  a  forlorn  solitude  that 
seemed  now  curiously,  in  little,  like  the  unhappy  situation 
he  was  in  to-day.  They  had  lived  together  for  a  year  or  so. 
Together  they  had  bought  the  Sunbury  Weekly  Gleaner,  to 
sell  it  later,  when  Henry's  success  and  his  marriage,  and  an 
unfortunate  love-affair  of  Humphrey's  caused  both  to  lose 
interest  in  it. 

From  his  boyhood  Humphrey  Weaver's  real  bent  had 
been  mechanical.  With  a  little  more  capital  he  might  have 
succeeded  in  flying ;  he  did  work  wonders  in  improving  the 
Chanute  gliders,  and  early  mastered  the  gas  engine,  besides 
conducting  curious  and  interesting  experiments  in  the  prin- 
ciples of  torsion  as  they  might  be  applied  to  automatic  de- 
vices for  swinging  electric  fans.  His  first  successes  had 
been  with  these  appliances.  Since  then  he  had  sold  a  num- 
ber of  inventions  and  had  come  to  be  a  director  in  several 
holding  and  merchandising  companies.  In  years  he  was 
now  approaching  the  middle  thirties.  He  had  the  air  of  a 
man  who,  as  we  say,  has  struck  his  gait.  There  was  nothing 
cheaply  expensive  about  him.  He  didn't  drink.  He  was  a 
student,  a  worker,  not  a  salesman  or  a  trader.  He  was  calm, 
thoughtful,  even  sober.  Yet,  the  prosperity  could  not  be 
denied.  It  came  between  the  two  old  friends  now  in  a  way 
that  neither  could  control.  The  older  man  sat  back,  soberly 


18  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

picking  his  words.  The  younger  man  grew  even  more 
moody,  silent,  lost  in  that  wilderness  within  his  breast  where 
his  spirit  had  wandered  for  years. 

Each  of  them,  as  they  sat  there,  fumbling  about  for  some- 
thing that  might  be  common  tender  among  all  the  confused 
coinage  of  speech,  felt  the  gulf  between  them ;  and  each,  too, 
felt  the  hopeless  nature  of  his  individual  effort  to  bridge  it. 
Fate  had  touched  them  differently,  that  was  all. 

Humphrey  was  casting  about  in  his  mind  for  some  verbal 
approach  to  the  problem  of  offering  money,  but  could  find 
none.  This  had  come  between  them  before,  since  the  trial. 

He  did  manage  to  ask : 

"How'd  you  happen  to  come  here  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  was  looking  over  the  atlas  one  day. 
It's  as  good  a  town  as  the  next.  They — they  don't  know 
me  here." 

"Tell  me  what  you're  doing,  Hen." 

"Working  on  a  paper." 

"What  one?" 

"The — oh,  it  doesn't  matter." 

"But  .  .  .  Are  you  fixed  all  right?  I  mean — living 
arrangements,  all  that?" 

"Oh,  yes.    Boarding-house." 

"Hmm!  I  hope  you're  comfortable,  Hen.  I've  noticed 
that  the  men  I  see  now,  the  men  who  are  handling  big 
things,  make  a  great  point  of  taking  care  of  themselves, 
saving  themselves.  It's  pretty  important  to  keep  the  nerves 
and  muscles  in  trim.  Do  you  get  much  exercise  ?" 

"Oh,  I  walk  some." 

"No  golf,  or  tennis,  or — "  Humphrey  faltered  here.  His 
eyes  were  again  taking  in  the  shabby  suit.  He  had  forgot- 
ten that  tennis  and  golf  mean  an  income,  that  the  clothing 
and  outfits  and  club  connections  carry  with  them  a  distinct 
upper-class  implication. 

His  old  friend  recognized  the  pause  only  with  a  listless 
gesture. 

"Well — I  wish  there  was  time  for  a  real  visit,  Hen. 
We've  got  a  little  getting  acquainted  to  do;  some  checking 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  19 

up.  I'm  going  to  try  to  plan  another  trip  here.  I'm  pretty 
busy.  But  you'd  better  give  me  your  address." 

There  was  no  reply. 

Humphrey  had  produced  a  little  red  book  and  a  fountain 
pen.  He  looked  up  now. 

"Oh,  may  as  well  leave  it — just  general  delivery."  Henry 
cleared  his  throat.  "I  may  be  moving  around  some." 

"Hen,"  Humphrey  was  facing  him  now,  "what's  the  mat- 
ter? What  is  it?  There's  something  wrong  here.  I  want 
you  to  tell  me." 

The  young  man  sat  brooding.  Once  he  threw  out  his 
hand  again  in  that  listless  way.  Finally,  obviously  nerv- 
ing himself,  he  said : 

"Well,  Hump,  you  know — you  know  how  it's  been.  What 
a  hell  of  a  fight  it's  been.  Nothing  does  any  good.  I've 
got  this  tag  on  me.  And  that's  all  they  can  see — just  the 
tag.  So  I — I'm  not  using  my  own  name  here." 

"Oh,"  said  Humphrey,  very  soberly— "that." 

"Yes.     It's  that." 

"Then,  Hen,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  the  other  name.  I 
think  I'd  better  have  it." 

"You  mean" — this  quickly — "in  case  anything  should 
happen." 

"No.  Nothing's  going  to  happen.  But  I  want  it.  The 
name,  and  the  name  of  your  paper,  and  your  boarding-house 
address." 

Henry  told  him ;  and  he  wrote  it  down  in  the  red  book. 

"Now  just  this — are  you  all  right?  Money  enough,  and 
so  on  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  all  right." 

Then  Humphrey  hurried  away  to  the  Cincinnati  sleeper. 

Late  that  night,  her  work  done,  Margie  Daw  ran  up  to 
the  morgue  for  a  cigarette.  She  wanted  to  talk  about  the 
mayor,  one  Maclntyre. 

"I've  been  trying  to  get  Mr.  Listerly  interested,  Hittie. 
The  man's  a  crook.  A  girl  I  know  that  works  at  the  County 
Railways  is  sure  they're  paying  him  money  right  along.  We 


20  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

haven't  run  any  sort  of  a  vice  campaign  this  year.  The 
paper's  dead.  If  we  could  put  it  through — you  know,  get 
him  impeached — we  could  pick  up  a  good  thirty  thousand 
of  circulation." 

Mr.  Hitt  covered  a  yawn.  "But,  my  child,"  he  remarked, 
"County  Railways  is  Cantey  Estate.  What  would  Mr.  Lis- 
terly's  own  job  be  worth  if  he  brought  County  Railways 
down  on  the  paper?" 

Margie  considered  this.  "Hmm!"  she  mused.  "That's 
what  the  chief  meant  when  he  said  we'd  be  lucky  to 
get  out  of  such  a  campaign  without  losing  more  than  thirty 
thousand  in  advertising." 

"That  is  what  he  meant." 

"Hmm!  .  .  .  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  ran  across  this  Mr. 
Stafford  over  at  the  Buffalo  Lunch.  We  held  brief  con- 
verse. He  will  hardly  tarry  long  in  our  midst." 


CHAPTER  THREE 

In  Which  Mary  Maloney  Makes  Her  Appearance,  Sitting 
On  the  Top  Step 

THERE  were  boarding-houses,  many  of  them,  about  the 
fringe  of  the  residential  districts  of  the  southern  part  of 
the  city,  where  the  ground  rolled  gently  upward  toward  the 
palaces  of  the  rich ;  but  all  these  were  on  the  fringe,  as  well, 
of  the  social  area  inhabited  by  all  the  people  one  knew, 
directly  or  indirectly,  about,  the  people  who  had  offices,  per- 
haps motor-cars,  certainly  clubs  and  friends  of  standing 
and  pews  in  church.  Which  fact  was,  of  course,  reflected 
in  the  price  of  board. 

The  house  in  which  Henry  Calverly  had,  a  few  days 
earlier,  engaged  a  small,  top-floor  room  was  in  a  wholly 
different  section  of  the  city  as  it  was  on  a  social  level  that 
was  wholly  beneath  the  consciousness,  not  only  of  snobs 
but  simply  and  sincerely  of  all  nice  people.  And  as  it  was 
not  low  enough  in  the  scale  to  come  easily  within  the  vision 
of  settlement  workers  and  city  missionaries,  you  might 
have  lived  all  your  life  and  died  in  this  city  without  ever 
becoming  aware  of  the  house  or  of  the  little  street  in 
which  it  stood. 

It  was  built  like  all  the  other  houses  in  the  street,  of  wood. 
It  wanted  paint.  The  houses  on  left  and  right  crowded  it 
so  closely  that  there  was  good  light  only  at  the  front  and 
rear.  Across  the  front,  and  only  a  few  yards  from  the  side- 
walk, was  a  somewhat  rickety  piazza  with  balusters  of  the 
sort  turned  out  in  thousand  lots  with  machine  lathes.  Within 
(and  without,  as  well)  it  smelled  of  cooking.  The  whole 
street,  indeed,  smelled  of  it,  despite  the  subtle  competition 
set  up  by  the  rendering  plant  across  the  river  whenever  the 
wind  was  right.  The  carpets  were  threadbare.  The  furni- 
ture was  cheap— elaborate  rocking  chairs  and  a  worn  and 

21 


22  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

lumpy  red  sofa  in  the  parlor,  with  a  marble-topped  table  and 
an  old,  odd  upright  piano,  not  all  the  notes  of  which  re- 
sponded with  certainty ;  in  the  bedrooms  a  kitchen  chair  or 
two,  an  old  wood  or  iron  bed,  a  yellow  oak  bureau  with 
some  part  of  a  rippling  mirror  remaining,  and  a  washstand 
over  the  back  of  which  hung  two  towels  for  each  inhabitant 
that  had  to  last  half  a  week. 

In  order  to  reach  this  part  of  town  you  took  a  River 
Street  car  and  transferred,  northbound,  at  Peck  Avenue; 
leaving  which  corner  you  were  soon  in  a  canyon  of  factories, 
some  of  brick,  more  of  wood.  Farther  out  you  passed  a 
long  row  of  lumber  yards  from  which  the  whining  song 
of  planing  mills  rasped,  all  of  every  day,  through  the  air. 
Above  the  rumbling  and  rattling  and  pounding  of  the  flat- 
wheeled  trolley  cars  (in  which  you  could  never  find  a  seat 
except  in  the  off-hour  of  mid-afternoon),  above  the  puffing, 
whistling,  bell-ringing  locomotives  in  the  railway  yards  on 
the  western  shore  of  the  river,  you  could  always,  seven  to 
twelve  and  one  to  six,  hear  the  siren-like  drone  of  the 
planers. 

It  was  about  a  quarter  to  one  at  night  when  Henry  Cal- 
verly  dropped  wearily  off  a  car  opposite  one  of  the  lumber 
yards  and  turned  into  the  little  side-street. 

A  moon  rode  the  sky.  In  its  soft  light  the  crowded, 
cluttered  houses,  with  their  cheap  little  porches  and  bay 
windows  and  sawed-out  ornaments  and  the  occasional  bat- 
tered picket  fences,  presented  a  softer  aspect  than  he  had 
before  felt  here. 

As  he  drew  near  the  house  he  saw  something  dark  on 
the  top  step.  Probably,  he  thought,  one  of  the  girl  boarders 
sitting  out  with  her  fellow.  There  were  several  girl  board- 
ers: two  or  three  couples  of  them  on  the  second  floor  and 
one  or  two  on  the  third  who  seemed  to  have  rooms  to  them- 
selves. They  gathered  in  the  early  evenings  about  the  piano 
and  sang  popular  songs.  One  of  the  third-floor  girls,  a  lit- 
tle thing  who  appeared  to  be  a  Miss  O'Brien  or  O'Reilly  or 
something  like  that,  played  the  simple  accompaniments  well 
enough.  They  had  asked  him  to  join  them  only  last  even- 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  23 

ing ;  rather  timidly,  and  with  giggles.  But  the  O'Brien  per- 
son had  not  turned  her  head.  He  was  glad  she  hadn't.  He 
was  afraid  now  that  he  must  have  seemed  pretty  rude.  He 
had  mumbled — an  unpleasant  trick  of  his,  lately — and  then 
rushed  out,  slamming  the  door  as  he  went.  He  hadn't  meant 
to  slam  it.  He  must  have  been  moving  rather  quickly. 
Though,  in  a  flickering,  haunty  way  it  now  occurred  to  him 
that  perhaps  he  had  meant  to  slam  it.  In  a  queer  way.  He 
realized  that  much  of  the  time  he  couldn't  himself  under- 
stand what  he  did  mean  to  do.  About  anything. 

He  saw,  as  he  turned  in,  at  the  steps,  that  the  dark  object 
was  not  a  couple,  but  a  solitary  girl.  The  Irish  girl,  appar- 
ently. 

She  said,  "Good  evening!"  very  simply  and  naturally. 

He  stopped  short  at  the  bottom  step. 

"Good  evening,  Miss — Miss  O'Brien." 

She  laughed  a  little,  softly.    It  was  almost  a  chuckle. 

"My  name  isn't  O'Brien,"  she  remarked. 

"Oh !"  he  murmured.    "I  thought— you— see " 

"It's  Maloney.     Mary  Maloney." 

"You — you — I  was  wondering — perhaps  you're  locked 
out" 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said.  Her  voice  was  low,  even  pleasant  in 
quality.  "I've  been  to  the  theater.  The  Little  Minister. 
Don't  you  just  love  Maude  Adams?" 

"I — I  used  to.  I  haven't  gone  to  the  theater  much,  late 
years." 

She  seemed  to  be  looking  at  him  rather  steadily.  He 
recalled  now  that  he  had  noticed  her  eyes.  She  was  not, 
in  other  respects,  a  particularly  noticeable  girl.  She  was 
short  and  perhaps  slightly  inclined  to  plumpness,  with  the 
smallest  hands  and  feet  he  had  ever  seen.  Despite  his  air 
of  indifference,  which  was  often,  he  feared,  sheer  rudeness, 
he  had  noted  all  this — in  the  dining-room,  while  passing  her 
on  the  stairs,  or  in  the  little  third-floor  hallway  they  two 
shared  with  a  few  others.  And  she  had  a  quietly  direct, 
practical  way  about  her.  But  her  eyes  were  unusually  large, 
and  were  fringed  with  the  longest  black,  or  very  dark 


24  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

brown,  lashes  he  had  ever  seen.  It  was  the  eyes,  and  her 
quiet,  self-respecting  way  that  gave  her  an  air  of  personality 
something  above  that  of  the  other  girls  in  the  house. 

"I  love  her.  There  isn't  anybody  else  that  makes  me  feel 
like  that.  And  then  we  went  to  the  Rivoli  for  supper." 

The  Rivoli  was  one  of  the  two  or  three  showy  restaurants 
of  the  city.  He  himself  hadn't  dreamed  of  going  there;  he 
had  merely  walked  by.  It  gave  him  a  little  start  now  to 
realize  that  these  girls  of  the  lumber-yard  district  patronized 
the  same  expensive  theaters  and  restaurants  as  the  people  on 
the  Hill.  He  would  have  assumed  the  motion  pictures  and 
one  of  the  Buffalo  Lunch  places.  He  didn't  know  that  this 
was  typical  of  America.  And  he  couldn't  have  known  that 
the  clothing  this  small  person  was  wearing  at  the  moment 
was  a  curious  mixture  of  the  cheap  machine-made  with  the 
fine  hand-sewed,  including  a  bit  of  French  embroidery. 

"I've  only  been  home  a  few  minutes,"  she  went  on.  "I 
went  in  at  first,  but  as  soon  as  my  friend  had  gone  I  came 
out  again.  It's  so  nice  out  here.  It  sorta  makes  the  play 
last  longer." 

She  looked  up  now,  away  from  him,  out  through  the  thin 
foliage  of  the  one  poplar  that  decorated  this  portion  of  the 
street. 

The  moonlight  streamed  gently  down,  full  on  her  uplifted 
face,  and  made  it  momentarily  beautiful.  He  stared  at  her. 
For  a  brief  moment  he  forgot  the  drab  little  street,  forgot 
that  she  was  but  Mary  Maloney,  a  girl  that  worked  some- 
where in  the  neighborhood  and  had  on  this  evening  seen 
a  play,  for  the  face  had  in  it,  under  this  ghostly  light,  the 
dream-quality,  the  mystery,  of  all  young  womanhood.  It 
touched  the  weary,  crushed  artist-soul  in  the  man,  touched 
a  raw  spot  that  no  crust  could  protect  from  a  purely  emo- 
tional appeal.  He  had  almost  to  wrench  his  eyes  away.  He 
looked  up  with  her  at  the  moon.  Then,  brows  knit  pain- 
fully, lips  compressed,  slowly,  hesitatingly,  as  one  who 
does  what  he  feels  he  must  under  no  circumstances  do,  he 
sank  down  beside  her  on  the  steps. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  25 

To  him  the  act  was  momentous.  But  she  seemed  to 
take  it  quietly  for  granted. 

"I  often  come  out  here  at  night,"  she  went  on,  in  the 
same  tone.  "I  don't  sleep  very  well.  And  I  can't  read  at 
night.  I — you  see,  I  keep  books  over  at  the  paper  mill,  and 
the  light's  not  good  there.  My  eyes  trouble  me  some.  I 
like  to  sit  here  alone — oh,  all  hours.  Nobody  sees  you.  And 
it's  the  only  time  the  street's  pleasant.  Besides,  I  guess  I 
enjoy  being  alone  more'n  most  girls." 

He  started  clumsily,  self-consciously,  at  this.  She  reached 
out  a  tiny  hand,  laid  it  on  his  sleeve. 

He  stared  down  at  it. 

To  her,  apparently,  it  was  a  natural,  wholly  impersonal 
action. 

"This  is  all  right,"  she  said.  "I  didn't  mean  for  you  to 
go.  Sometimes  it's  nice  to  have  some  one  to  talk  to.  Of 
course." 

He  bit  his  lip.    There  was  pain  in  his  face. 

Suddenly,  nervously,  with  a  little  catch  in  his  throat, 
and  an  effort  to  speak  hastily  and  casually — an  effort  that 
failed — he  raised  his  hand,  started  to  draw  it  back,  then 
abruptly  laid  it  on  hers  and  pressed  it  against  his  sleeve. 

For  a  moment,  then,  he  held  his  breath. 

But  she,  in  that  same  simple,  natural  way,  as  if  while 
in  this  mood  she  was  glad  to  feel  a  friendly  pressure,  let 
her  fingers  settle  gently  about  his.  The  emotions  that  were 
tearing  at  one  another  and  at  himself  within  his  breast  failed 
so  much  as  to  touch  her.  He  felt  this;  knew  it;  and  held 
her  fingers  gingerly. 

Thus  they  sat  and  looked  up  at  the  moon. 

"You  ought  to  come  in  and  sing  with  us  sometimes,"  she 
said,  after  a  time.  "Or  don't  you  sing?" 

He  had  a  little  difficulty  with  his  voice  in  replying.  It 
seemed  to  want  to  break  out  explosively.  All  he  managed, 
at  length,  to  say  was — 

"Not  any  more.    I  used  to." 

"The  girls  are  crazy  to  have  you." 


26  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"I — I'm  not  likely  to  be  here  much  at  supper-time.  I'm 
working  on  a  newspaper." 

He  said  this  as  if  not  quite  sure  it  was  true. 

"Oh,  is  that  so !    Do  you  write  things  ?" 

"Some.  That  is — I  have  written  things.  Not  very  lately. 
I  haven't  been — that  is,  I  haven't  been  very  well,  these  last 
few  years." 

"Oh,  that's  too  bad !" 

So  far  the  same  bafflingly  impersonal  tone.  But  now,  for 
a  moment,  the  personal  snowed  through.  Almost  defen- 
sively. 

"My  friend's  awfully  good  to  me.  He  takes  me  to  all 
the  good  plays  and  things.  He's  foreman  in  Peterson's  lum- 
ber yard." 

Again  they  were  silent. 

He  found  himself  nervously  pressing  the  soft  little  fin- 
gers. And  groping  among  his  confused  thoughts,  trying 
to  puzzle  out  her  code.  Surely  she  had  one.  She  was  no 
silly  little  idler;  he  felt  that.  According  to  his  own  code, 
this  was  all  wrong.  It  was  breaking  faith.  Once  let  this 
drift  set  in  and  he  would  soon  be  losing  hold  on  what  little, 
what  sadly  little,  he  had  to  cling  to  in  life.  Apparently  the 
drift  had  started.  Warm  little  impulses  were  daring  to 
raise  their  heads  in  his  hungry  heart.  They  were  his  trait- 
ors, these  impulses ;  he  must  steel  himself  to  fight  them.  He 
wondered  despairingly  what  was  the  matter  with  him  this 
past  year  or  more.  Before  that  it  had  been,  in  a  bitter  sav- 
age way,  easy  to  control  himself.  He  had  felt,  every  wak- 
ing moment,  every  dreaming  moment,  the  gentle  dark  eyes 
and  all  the  dainty  little  mannerisms  (that  had  been  as  mir- 
acles to  him)  of  the  wife  of  his  youth.  He  had  felt  a  wild 
sort  of  joy  in  stamping  out  all  other  human  fire.  Life  had 
run  on,  of  course;  but  he  had  been  glad  of  that.  Life  now 
had  nothing  for  him.  He  was  through  with  it.  Let  it  run 
on !  ...  Though  it  had  a  pitiless  way  of  dragging  you  on 
with  it.  He  had  wondered  often  why  he  kept  up  the  strug- 
gle. Some  instinct  kept  him  half-heartedly  at  it.  He  had 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  27 

wanted  to  follow  Cicely ;  but  found  it  impossible  to  take  his 
own  life.  He  had  thought  it  over  from  every  angle. 

But  now  was  it  to  be  like  this — the  unceasingly  persistent 
pressures  of  life  searching  out  the  weak  spots  in  his  defense, 
keeping  at  him,  constantly  throwing  in  his  path  fresh  lures, 
threatening  even  to  dim  the  heretofore  vivid  outlines  of  his 
most  deeply  precious  memories? 

He  suddenly  gripped  the  girl's  hand  tightly,  the  hand  of 
this  little  Mary  Maloney  whom  he  didn't  even  really  know, 
who  was  nothing  to  him  except  as  she  might  symbolize 
the  feminine  influence  that  has  made  or  wrecked  man  the 
world  over,  throughout  all  history. 

He  lifted  her  hand  now,  in  a  curious  jerky  way,  toward 
his  lips.  Through  four  terrible  years  he  had  not  kissed  a 
woman's  hand. 

Then,  suddenly,  she  showed  a  trace  of  feeling.  She  made 
a  slight  effort  to  draw  her  hand  away.  Not  an  effectual 
effort — she  was  still  gazing  dreamily  at  the  moon,  doubtless 
seeing  herself  in  fancy  as  the  romantic  gipsy  of  the 
play — but  nevertheless  a  recognition  of  the  fact  that  he  was 
there  and  that  he  was  a  man. 

He  gripped  tighter,  wondering  savagely  if  he  was  hurting 
her. 

Then,  as  suddenly,  he  dropped  her  hand,  sprang  up,  let 
himself  into  the  house,  ran  up  the  two  flights  of  stairs  to 
his  room,  lighted  the  gas  with  trembling  hands,  dropped 
into  a  chair  before  the  bureau,  and  sat,  breathless,  staring  at 
the  little  snapshot,  in  a  silver  frame,  of  a  girl  of  twenty  with 
a  delicately  oval  smiling  face  and  gentle  happy  eyes. 

He  must  have  sat  there,  motionless,  for  some  time. 

He  heard  the  front  door  open  and  close  softly,  and  then  a 
light  step  on  the  stairs. 

He  rose ;  stood  irresolute ;  tiptoed  to  the  door ;  stood  there, 
gripping  the  knob,  listening,  holding  his  breath. 

She  walked  as  usual,  quietly  but  firmly,  on  her  heels.  He 
knew  now  how  deeply  he  had  been  aware  of  her,  how  clear 
were  the  impressions  his  inner  ear  and  eye  had  registered. 


28  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

In  a  moment  she  would  be  coming  by  his  door. 

He  straightened  up.  His  hand  turned  the  knob,  very 
softly,  an  inch. 

He  was  feverishly  working  out  something  in  the  way  of 
self-justification  for  what  he  was,  perhaps,  about  to  do.  He 
told  himself  that  at  least  he  must  whisper  a  word  of  apology 
for  his  rudeness. 

Then  she  was  by,  and  her  own  door  had  opened  and 
closed.  But  still  he  stood  there.  There  was  sweat  on  his 
forehead,  but  his  feet  and  hands  were  cold. 

He  tore  off  his  coat  and  collar  and  shoes ;  threw  himself 
on  the  narrow  bed. 

An  hour  or  so  later  he  got  up,  undressed,  put  out  his 
light,  and,  after  a  time  of  staring  into  the  darkness,  drifted 
into  a  disturbed  light  sleep,  the  only  sort  he  had  known  for 
years. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

In  Which  Margie  Daw  Starts  After  the  Biggest  Story  in 

the  World 

IN  mid-afternoon  of  the  next  day  Henry  sat  at  his  desk 
reading  Montaigne,  or  staring,  at  least,  at  the  fine  print 
in  the  pocket-size  volume.  The  chapter  that  so  closely  held 
his  attention  was  entitled,  "How  the  Soule  Dischargeth  her 
Passions  upon  False  Objects  when  the  True  Faile  it." 

At  one  of  the  desks  by  the  window  old  Mr.  Upham  was 
writing.  He  did  Popular  Science  for  the  Sunday  paper. 

Margie  Daw  was  clicking-  off  her  day's  "story"  on  her 
typewriter. 

Henry  glanced  over  at  her.  He  wondered  how  she  could 
work  like  that,  composing  on  the  machine,  never  so  much  as 
pausing  for  a  word.  She  was  taking  out  a  sheet  now,  and 
inserting  another.  And  now  her  fingers  were  flying  again. 
.  .  .  He  was  faintly  sorry.  He  could  have  stood  a  little 
talk.  He  wished  old  Mr.  Upham  would  go.  Miss  Daw,  at 
least,  seemed  human.  The  rest  of  the  office  depressed  him 
dreadfully ;  it  was  a  driving  hostile  place  where,  apparently, 
you  fought  for  a  footing,  and  failing  it  were  left  to  slip 
out  and  down  unheeded.  It  was  the  grim  struggle  of  life, 
intensified,  run  off  at  high  speed.  .  .  .  This  girl  had  the 
speed.  Almost  a  soft  little  thing,  with  a  pleasantly  feminine 
voice  and  nice  eyes,  she  could  yet  drive  through  her  work 
with  the  best  of  them.  A  young  person  of  boundless  self- 
reliance.  If  a  cynical  office-neighbor  had  told  him  just  then 
of  Margie's  two  husbands,  both  casually  relegated  to  the 
limbus  of  the  elsewhere,  he  would  have  found  the  informa- 
tion incredible.  If  he  could  have  read  what  she  was  writ- 
ing, even,  with  those  pretty  little  fingers,  he  would  have  ex- 
perienced a  new  bewilderment ;  for,  as  it  happened,  Margie 
had  just  spent  three  hours  trying  to  wring  a  confession  of 

29 


30  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

murder  from  an  hysterical  woman.  She  hadn't  succeeded ; 
but  had  picked  up  a  good  day's  grist. 

Henry  sighed ;  slipped  the  book  into  his  pocket ;  fell  to 
drawing  aimless  designs  on  the  copy  paper  before  him. 
They  hadn't  given  him  work  to  do.  It  was  going  to  be  hard, 
sitting  here,  nothing  to  do  but  think.  If  only  one  could 
stop  thinking.  And  now  to  the  painful  thoughts  he  had  had 
to  live  with  all  these  years,  was  added  this  fresh  confusion 
of  Mary  Maloney.  Opening  up  all  the  old  trouble.  He 
would  have  to  do  something  about  that.  He  had  been  rude. 
She  would  be  wondering.  It  was  an  accident,  of  course ; 
finding  her  on  the  top  step.  He  couldn't  be  blamed  for  that. 
But  he  shouldn't  have  sat  down.  There  was  where  he  had 
made  his  mistake.  From  that  point  on,  the  fault  was  his. 
They  would  be  meeting  again — in  the  dining-room,  on  the 
stairs,  up  in  that  third-floor  corridor.  In  imagination  he 
could  hear  her  now,  walking  by  his  door  on  her  heels. 

He  tried  drawing  her  profile.  Then  suddenly  tore  the 
paper  into  small  bits  and  put  them  almost  furtively  in  the 
waste-basket. 

He  thought,  weakly,  of  moving  to  another  boarding- 
house;  then,  as  weakly,  asked  himself  what  good  it  would 
do.  He  would  have  to  say  something,  anyway.  In  running 
away  from  himself  and  her  he  had  settled  nothing.  .  .  .  He 
glanced  again  toward  Miss  Daw.  Her  fingers  were  still 
flying.  A  little  dynamo,  that  girl!  He  had  never  known 
anybody  like  her.  And  she  seemed  kind.  If  she  would 
talk  to  him  it  might  in  some  degree  crowd  out  this  Mary 
Maloney  problem.  She  might  have  supper  again  with  him. 
Perhaps  she'd  suggest  it.  Miss  Daw,  at  least,  didn't  appeal 
to  his  protecting  instinct.  You  wouldn't  feel  responsible 
for  her. 

Archie  Trent  came  in  then,  breezily,  spring  overcoat  fly- 
ing open,  gloves  and  stick  in  hand,  a  pink  carnation  on  his 
lapel. 

He  devoted  himself  to  Margie,  ignoring  the  pale  young 
man  behind  the  door  as  he  ignored  the  old  man  by  the 
window. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  31 

"Well,  I'm  going  out  among  'em  to-night,"  he  announced. 

"Sounds — and  looks,''  thus  Margie,  barely  glancing  up, 
"like  Miss  Meyne." 

"Guessed  right  the  very  first  time.  She  opens  to-night  in 
But  a  Rose.  She's  dining  with  me  first  at  the  Rivoli.  Says 
I  have  a  calming  effect  on  her  nerves." 

Margie  looked  straight  up  at  him  now ;  considered  him — 
newly  trimmed  and  brushed  beard,  cool  pale  eyes,  dapper 
costume — then  resumed  her  work. 

"Well,  will  I  do,  Margie?" 

She  half-smiled;  said  nothing. 

He  turned  to  Henry's  desk;  said,  "I  want  you  to  cover 
the  show  at  the  Cantey  Square,  Stafford.  Be  in  the  lobby 
a  little  after  eight.  I'll  look  in  then  and  introduce  you." 

He  laid  two  tickets  on  the  desk,  and  then,  with  a  "Ta-ta, 
Margie!"  went  out. 

During  something  more  than  four  years  Henry  hadn't 
entered  a  theater,  or  a  church,  or  a  lecture  or  concert  hall. 
He  hadn't  so  much  as  walked  through  a  railway  station 
without  avoiding  crowded  platforms  and  main  waiting- 
rooms.  Even  in  unfamiliar  cities  he  commonly  used  back 
streets,  and  never  walked  even  there  without  self -conscious- 
ness. All  this  was  habit  now ;  it  was  his  life.  He  had 
known,  these  two  days,  that  Trent  would  be  sending  him  to 
the  theater.  He  thought  he  had  made  up  his  mind  on  it, 
accepting  it  as  simply  a  hard  fact  of  life  that  must  be  faced. 
It  was  what  he  had  come  to.  He  had  to  do  it  to  keep  alive. 
He  had  supposed  that  he  would  go  through  with  it.  Diffi- 
cult as  the  thing  was  to  face,  he  hadn't  for  a  moment  fore- 
seen what  would  be  the  effect  on  him  of  these  first  two  bits 
of  pasteboard. 

He  found  himself  in  a  state  of  nervous  collapse.  He 
had  to  lie  back  in  his  chair.  His  mouth  was  dry.  It  was 
difficult  to  breathe. 

After  a  moment  he  pulled  himself  up  and  glanced  around 
to  see  if  the  others  had  noted  his  condition.  Apparently 
they  hadn't  Miss  Daw's  typewriter  was  clicking  swiftly 
away. 


32  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

The  thing  to  do  was  to  keep  quiet  until  he  could  get  his 
breath.  He  got  the  tickets  into  his  fingers.  It  was  hard  to 
focus  his  eyes  on  them. 

They  were  for  row  E  of  the  Orchestra.  He  would  be 
walking  in  at  the  front  entrance,  mingling  with  a  merry 
crowd  in  the  foyer,  marching  nearly  all  the  way  down  the 
aisle.  He  would  be  there  as  the  News  critic ;  a  marked  man, 
singled  out,  pointed  at.  And  Trent  had  said  something 
about  "introducing"  him.  To  whom  ?  What  did  he  mean  ? 

He  brushed  an  unsteady  hand  across  his  eyes. 

He  got  up,  slowly,  awkwardly ;  took  down  his  shapeless 
gray  spring  overcoat  and  with  some  difficulty  slipped  it  on. 

The  typewriter  stopped  now.  He  felt  Miss  Daw's  eyes 
on  him ;  turned ;  tried  to  smile ;  then,  in  a  daze,  went  out. 

Margie  looked  after  him.  He  had  left  the  door  open. 
She  glanced  at  Mr.  Upham ;  got  up  to  close  the  door ;  stood 
there,  pursing  her  lips,  looking  down  at  the  queer  little  pic- 
tures he  had  been  drawing  on  the  copy  paper  on  his  desk. 
She  decided  to  take  these  as  soon  as  Mr.  Upham  left.  He 
would  be  going  pretty  soon. 

Over  the  night  Margie  had  reread  his  one  great  book.  It 
was  great.  It  had  moved  her.  She  had  nothing  but  re- 
spect, touched  with  awe,  for  the  author  of  "A  Curbstone 
Barmecide"  and  "Roc's  Eggs,  Strictly  Fresh"  and  "AH  An- 
derson and  the  Four  Policemen."  Old  Hittie  had  always 
raved  over  them.  Hittie  was  right.  But  this  odd  being  who 
preferred  to  call  himself  Hugh  Stafford  exhibited  no  sign 
of  the  greatness  that  had  been  in  Henry  Calverly.  It  had 
been  in  him.  It  might  appear  in  him  again.  For  he  was, 
after  all,  young — surely  under  thirty — perhaps  no  older  than 
her  trim  little  self. 

Mr.  Upham  was  closing  his  desk  and  looking  around  for 
his  hat. 

Margie  moved  about  the  room,  softly  humming. 

Mr.  Upham  said  good  night,  and  left. 

Margie  closed  the  door  after  him,  too. 

She  pounced  then  on  the  aimless  drawings.  Margie  had 
poured  over  works  on  morbid  psychology  that  Henry  Cal- 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  33 

verly  had  never  heard  of ;  just  as  she  had  studied,  fascinated, 
the  evidence  in  famous  murder  trials  and  the  pitiful  squirm- 
ings  of  spitted  criminals  under  the  probings  of  hard  eager 
prosecutors  out  for  a  conviction.  Though  these  squirmers 
had  never  seemed  particularly  pitiful  to  Margie.  They  were 
merely  interesting.  They  were  cases.  As  cases  she  de- 
lighted in  them.  And  so  these  idle  wanderings  of  Henry 
Calverly's  pencil  delighted  her.  They  were  slight  but 
authentic  glimpses  of  a  disordered  genius.  She  looked  into 
his  waste-basket;  found  the  bits  he  had  torn;  carefully 
gathered  them  all.  It  wouldn't  be  difficult  to  paste  them  up 
in  an  odd  half-hour. 

On  the  \vall  hung  a  wrinkled,  threadbare  coat  that  be- 
longed to  the  only  suit  she  had  seen  him  wear  thus  far. 
He  must  have  gone  off  in  that  old  alpaca  thing.  It  was  a 
remarkable  garment,  the  alpaca.  He  must  have  worked  in 
it  for  years  and  years.  She  wondered  now,  with  a  thrill, 
if  he  could  have  worn  it  when  he  wrote  "Roc's  Eggs."  Dur- 
ing some  period  red  ink  had  played  a  part  in  his  life ;  there 
was  an  extraordinary  amount  of  it  all  about  the  lower  part 
of  the  coat.  As  if  he  had  wiped  his  pen  on  it  thousands  of 
times.  And  one  side  pocket  was  ripped  half  off  and  hung 
flapping.  All  this  she  had  carefully  noted. 

She  reached  up  to  the  coat  he  had  left  here,  turning  the 
collar  back  and  examining  the  label.  Yes,  it  was  ready- 
made  ;  as  also  would  be  the  old  gray  overcoat.  The  trial 
had  wrecked  his  finances,  of  course. 

The  side  pockets  bulged  with  papers.  And  the  inside 
breast  pocket  was  full. 

Above  the  noise  of  the  city  room,  outside  the  partition, 
a  step  sounded  in  the  passage.  Margie  instantly  composed 
her  face  and  slipped  back  to  her  own  desk. 

The  step  passed  ....  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  re- 
flecting. She  had  heard  old  newspaper  men  term  the  Watt- 
Cal verly  tragedy  the  "greatest"  human  interest  story  (in 
the  popular  newspaper  usage  of  that  word)  since  Guiteau 
murdered  President  Garfield.  The  bizarre  history  of 
Madr.me  la  Comtesse,  the  eminent  place  in  American  his- 


34  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

tory  occupied  by  old  Senator  Watt,  the  appealing  beauty  of 
Cicely  Calverly  and  her  pitiful  death,  the  blighted  fame  of 
Henry  Calverly,  his  imprisonment,  his  disappearance  from 
public  view ;  these  and  other  items  made  it  a  fascinating  case. 
It  was  peculiarly,  above  all  other  cases  in  a  rough  and  dra- 
matic world,  the  sort  that  is  exhaustively  reopened  in  the 
papers  whenever,  for  any  reason,  any  one  of  the  parties  to 
it  becomes  conspicuous  again.  Why,  the  judge  who  sen- 
tenced Henry  Calverly  to  the  penitentiary  couldn't  so  much 
as  break  a  rib  in  an  automobile  accident  without  bringing 
it  all  back  to  page  one !  Or  any  one  of  the  lawyers.  A 
number  of  prominent  court  alienists  dated  their  fame  from 
that  trial.  While  old  Madame  Watt  couldn't  do  anything, 
any  moment — die,  or  attack  a  servant,  or  build  another  cas- 
tle, without  tearing  wide  open  every  newspaper  morgue  in 
the  United  States.  And  that  done,  this  absurd  "Hugh  Staf- 
ford" blunder  would  be  oil  on  the  flames.  They'd  finish  him 
then,  this  sensitive,  helpless  young  fellow.  They'd  make  a 
job  of  it  this  next  time. 

Margie's  eyes  were  glistening  now  in  sheer  excitement. 
And  her  heart  was  beating  high.  For  this  biggest  story  in 
the  world  had  walked  innocently  in  only  yesterday  through 
the  doorway  in  the  seven-foot  partition  and  seated  itself 
right  here  in  the  corner. 

Certain  of  the  documents  in  the  case — sidelights,  surely, 
on  a  puzzling,  a  really  baffling  character — were  in  the  pockets 
of  that  ready-made  coat  on  the  wall.  It  was  even  possible 
that  among  them  were  letters  from  the  hand  of  the  mad 
old  countess,  who  was  surely  still  living  in  that  absurd 
castle  in  Illinois. 

Margie  would  have  given  anything  in  the  world  just  then 
for  those  papers.  She  even,  with  hesitation,  moved  her 
chair  back,  considering  the  temptation  to  take  them  and 
read  them. 

But  she  shook  her  head  over  it.  "Too  risky,"  she  told 
herself. 

Margie's  code  was  personal  and  peculiar.  Her  loyalty 
to  the  newspaper  she  happened  to  be  working  for  was 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  35 

among  her  deepest  traits,  almost  her  religion.  Men  she 
regarded,  at  times,  in  certain  moods,  as  legitimate  prey. 
Toward  them,  in  all  personal  relations,  she  had  few  scruples; 
she  was  not,  in  the  common  understanding  of  the  word, 
innocent;  yet  it  was  generally  believed  among  the  little 
Bohemian  newspaper  community  that  she  had  never  yet 
used  her  considerable  personal  charm  to  advance  herself. 
She  knew  women  that  had,  and  despised  them.  This  prin- 
ciple cropped  out  oddly  on  the  surface  of  her  life ;  for  one 
small  fact  she  went  about,  ate,  and  on  occasions  drank  with 
men,  but  always  paying  her  share  of  the  bill.  She  insisted 
on  this.  Her  men  friends  accepted  it. 

But  the  pursuit  of  a  "story"  was  another  matter.  She 
would  then  stop  at  little.  Her  spirit  rose  to  it. 

Her  color  was  rising,  her  eyes  intent  and  alight.  She  bit 
her  lip. 

"I'll  make  him  read  them  to  me,"  she  decided. 

She  turned  to  the  typewriter  then,  and  with  a  deliberate 
exercise  of  will  finished  her  script.  After  which,  quieter 
now  but  still  intent,  she  went  out  for  a  bit  of  supper.  It 
was  early,  only  a  little  after  five.  Her  thoughts  were  full 
of  Henry  Calverly. 

She  found  him,  stumbled  on  him,  in  a  doorway  next  to 
the  corner  drug  store,  leaning  there,  gray  and  haggard  of 
face,  his  eyes  helplessly  following  this  or  that  passer-by. 

"You  look  ill,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  it's— it's  nothing— much.    I'll  be  all  right." 

"Do  you  live  near  here?" 

"Oh — why  no,  not  very." 

"Where?" 

"What  was  that?" 

"Where  do  you  live  ?" 

"Oh  .  .  .  Well,  out  Peck  Avenue  way." 

"Good  heavens !    You  can't  go  'way  out  there." 

"Oh,  yes !  In  a  few  minutes.  I  went  over  to  the  post — " 
He  caught  himself.  "I  was  waiting  for  a  River  Street  car. 
I  felt  a  little  queer — oh,  just  dizzy  ..." 

Margie  looked  out  about  the  street.     An  old  four-wheel 


36  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

cab  stood  across  the  way.    She  caught  the  driver's  eye.    He 
drove  across. 

Henry  Calverly  couldn't  follow  even  this.  He  still  leaned 
against  the  building. 

Margie  looked  up  and  down  the  walk  for  acquaintances. 
Then  she  led  him,  resisting  only  a  little  in  a  contused  way, 
to  the  curb. 

Then,  bewildered,  he  stepped  aside  to  make  way  for  her. 

"No,"   she   said  quickly,   "get   in." 

He  obeyed. 

She  hurried  in  after  him,  saying  nervously  aloud,  to  her- 
self, "It's  taking  an  awful  chance."  She  glanced  up  then, 
quickly,  to  see  if  he  had  heard  her.  He  hadn't. 

They  drove  over  two  streets  and  pulled  up  before  an  old 
red-brick  flat  building. 

He  had  said,  "I  don't  understand  why  I  let  you  do  this." 

She  had  the  money  ready.  Before  he  could  half  voice  his 
rather  crude  protest  he  was  across  the  sidewalk  and  mount- 
ing a  flight  of  dark  stairs.  She  unlocked  a  door.  He  found 
himself  in  a  tiny  and  rather  disorderly  apartment.  A  morn- 
ing wrap  lay  across  the  sofa.  She  threw  it  aside  to  make 
room  for  him.  As  he  sank  down,  he  found  himself  look- 
ing into  a  bedroom.  Some  feminine  things  were  on  a  chair ; 
slippers  on  the  floor,  just  as  they  had  been  kicked  off.  He 
felt  extremely  uncomfortable;  tried  to  sit  up  straight,  with- 
out making  much  of  a  job  of  it ;  cleared  his  throat. 

"It's  very  good  of  you,"  he  began,  confused.  The  color 
was  returning  to  his  face.  He  could  feed  it. 

She  stood  before  him;  spread  her  small  feet  a  little; 
thrust  her  hands  into  her  coat  pockets;  critically  surveyed 
him. 

"You'd  better  do  as  I  tell  you,"  she  said  now.  "Take  off 
some  of  your  things,  coat  and  collar,  anyway.  There  ought 
to  be  a  man's  bathrobe  here  somewhere.  Wait  a  minute." 
She  rummaged  in  the  closet ;  called  back,  "Here  it  is !  Put 
it  on.  Now  stretch  out  and  try  to  be  comfortable  .  .  .  No, 
do  as  I  tell  you !  You're  all  in,  and  you  don't  know  it.  I'll 
get  you  some  Scotch." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  37 

"No — no!"  said  he,  with  the  first  touch  of  vigor  he  had 
shown.  "Really,  I  won't  drink  anything!" 

"Hum!  Wait  a  minute — I'll  get  spirits  of  ammonia." 
And  she  ran  down  the  stairs  and  across  the  way  to  a  drug 
store.  He  saw  her  from  the  window.  He  found  himself 
drinking  the  stuff. 

They  had  an  odd  conversation  then.  Altogether  matter- 
of-fact.  She  curled  up  in  the  one  big  upholstered  chair 
and  lit  a  cigarette.  He  felt  weakly  that  he  mustn't  appear  to 
notice  it;  though  he  had  seen  few  women  smoke.  He 
hadn't  realized  how  pretty  she  was.  At  the  office  she 
seemed  brisker;  more  like  a  young  fellow.  Here  she 
seemed  a  thought  older.  He  found  himself  growing  afraid 
of  her.  The  thought  came  that  it  would  be  awkward  to  be 
caught  here — this  way — in  this  bathrobe  .  .  .  The  stimulant 
was  clearing  his  head.  It  was  nothing  anyway !  A  foolish 
little  attack  of  nerves.  He'd  had  them  before ;  often  in  the 
old  days ;  had  always  driven  right  through  them. 

She  talked  with  utter  ease ;  smiling  a  little ;  very  kind ; 
and  practical.  Indeed,  her  logic  was  difficult  to  meet  out  of 
a  tired,  emotion-clouded  mind. 

"You're  living  in  a  boarding-house,  I  take  it." 

He  bowed. 

"Beastly  game !    I'd  die  first." 

"I  know.  But  what  can  you  do?" 

She  waved  her  cigarette  about  the  room. 

"This.  You  can't  do  better  than  seven  or  eight  a  week,  at 
best." 

"Eight." 

"Then  there's  car  fares,  and  the  awful  wear  and  tear." 

"I  know." 

"You  can  pick  up  something  pretty  cheap  here  in  this 
building.  Eat  as  you  like.  You're  independent.  And  you 
don't  have  to  pay  for  meals  you  aren't  there  to  eat." 

"I  know.  That's  bothered  me  some.  I  was  thinking  I'd 
go  out  there  for  supper  to-night.  You  see,  it  costs  a  good 
deal,  paying  out  there  and  eating  down-town." 

"I'd  offer  to  put  you  up  here  until  you — " 


38  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"Oh,  no!    I  wouldn't  put  you  to  that  trouble." 

" — but  I  simply  haven't  got  room.  Just  the  one  bedroom, 
and  this  little  coop,  and  bathroom.  I  keep  a  tin  refrigerator 
and  alcohol  stove  in  there.  It's  crowded,  but  at  least  it's 
not  a  boarding-house." 

Henry  tried  to  consider  the  apartment  idea  calmly,  prac- 
tically; tried  to  imagine  this  extraordinary  Miss  Daw  as  the 
frank,  bright  young  fellow  she  sometimes  seemed.  This 
effort  was  unsuccessful.  His  temples  were  pounding.  It 
hadn't  occurred  to  him  that  a  woman  could  hold  a  cigarette 
so  gracefully. 

He  thought,  as  from  a  distance,  of  Mary  Maloney.  It 
might  solve  that  problem.  Though  this  .... 

He  heard  her  saying — 

"You'd  better  stretch  out  here  and  get  some  sleep.  I'll 
call  up  about  half  past  seven  and  see  if  you're  able  to  go  to 
the  theater." 

"Oh,  yes,  surely—" 

"If  you're  not,  I'll  manage  to  cover  it,  one  way  or  the 
other.  So  don't  worry.  You  can  stay  here  to-night,  if  you 
think  you  could  be  comfortable  on  the  sofa.  You  certainly 
won't  want  to  drag  yourself  out  to  a  Peck  Avenue  boarding- 
house  unless  you  feel  a  lot  better  than  this.  Help  yourself 
to  my  books." 

It  seemed  to  him,  when  he  tried  to  reconstruct  the  picture 
later  in  memory,  that  she  stood  for  a  time,  after  she  had 
pulled  down  her  becoming  little  felt  hat  and  rubbed  out  the 
stub  of  her  cigarette,  hands  in  pockets,  studying  him  with  a 
curious  intentness.  He  knew  that  he  grew  very  red,  and 
looked  down  awkwardly  at  the  bathrobe. 

And  then,  with  a  smile  and  a  positive,  triumphant  little 
whip  of  her  head,  she  left  him  there, 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

Emotions  in  Alpaca 

FOR  a  time — half  or  three-quarters  of  an  hour — Calverly 
sat,  rather  uncomfortably,  on  the  edge  of  the  sofa 
staring  at  the  wall.  His  mental  self  was  afloat,  adrift,  on  a 
wide  sea  of  emotion.  He  was  only  vaguely  aware  of  the 
stuffy  little  apartment,  of  his  own  old  alpaca  office  coat  and 
his  collar  and  tie  lying  across  the  books  on  the  table.  Once 
or  twice  he  emerged  from  his  reverie,  saw  again  the  femi- 
nine things  about  him,  glanced  down  at  the  strange  old  bath- 
robe in  which  he  was  wrapped,  and  flushed.  Then,  almost 
at  once,  he  was  back  on  that  confused  and  boundless  sea 
of  feeling. 

He  caught  himself  muttering  aloud.  About  going  to  the 
theater.  This  seemed  to  be  what  he  was  really  thinking 
about.  He  wondered  if  he  was  just  an  ordinary  coward. 

"What's  the  difference" — he  was  muttering  again — "if 
they  do  recognize  me !  What  can  they  do  ?  Why,  nothing ! 
How  can  they  stop  me  doing  the  job  I'm  sent  there  to  do? 
They  can't.  Of  course!  I've  got  a  right  to  live,  haven't 
I  ?  Suppose  I  was  a  soldier  and  got  sent  .  .  .  though  that 
would  be  easy." 

He  sprang  up,  nerves  suddenly  alert,  quivering;  tore 
off  the  bathrobe.  Who  did  it  belong  to,  anyway !  Why  was 
it  here  in  Miss  Daw's  rooms  ?  It  was  a  man's  garment  .  .  . 
Why  was  he  himself  here? 

Hurriedly,  breathless  again,  really  in  an  odd,  shamefaced 
panic,  a  complete  revulsion,  he  got  collar  and  tie  on,  then 
coat  and  overcoat.  He  rushed  out,  headlong. 

He  was  relieved  at  getting  unseen  into  the  cross-street. 

He  waited  on  a  corner  among  a  crowd  of  gum-chewing, 
giggling  shopgirls.  He  moved  away  from  them. 

He  hung  from  a  strap  in  a  crowded  car ;  waited  again  at 

39 


40  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

a  transfer  station ;  rode  out  Peck  Avenue  clinging  to 
the  rear  step  in  a  tightly  packed  group  of  laboring  men. 
They  were  dirty,  and  smelled  of  sweat.  The  car  was  dirty. 
The  conductor's  reaching  hand  was  dirty.  A  pall  of  smoke 
from  the  planing  mills  and  the  rendering  plant  and  the  box 
factories  hung  over  the  gray  street. 

It  was  supper-time  at  the  boarding-house.  He  felt  people 
staring  at  him  as  he  walked  through  the  dim,  dingy,  dining- 
room.  It  seemed  to  him  that  they  must  know  his  secret  and 
all  he  was  going  through.  Else  why  should  they  stare  so  ? 

As  he  stepped  out  into  the  hall  after  supper  he  realized 
that  the  piano  was  going.  And  pleasant  young  voices  were 
singing. 

He  moved  slowly,  wistfully,  past  the  parlor  door. 

They  saw  him.  There  must  have  been  six  or  seven  girls 
there  altogether.  Two  or  three  turned.  There  was  a  pause 
in  the  song,  and  some  whispering. 

Mary  Maloney,  at  the  piano,  called : 

"Won't  you  come  in,  Mr.  Stafford?" 

He  stood  a  moment,  bit  his  lip.  He  told  himself  that  it 
was  absurd  to  take  it  so  hard.  It  couldn't  hurt  anybody  for 
him  to  go  in  there  and  sing  a  little.  He  used  to  love  singing. 
It  had  been  one  of  his  curious  group  of  gifts.  But  it  had 
been,  more  recently,  the  one  gift  he  had  most  fiercely  sup- 
pressed. It  seemed  now,  for  a  moment,  that  in  merely 
crossing  that  threshold  he  would  be  releasing  all  the  desper- 
ately chained  forces  of  life  within  him.  If  he  were  to  let 
himself  enjoy  one  thing,  why  not  another? 

And  how  could  he  make  friends  as  Hugh  Stafford  ?  What 
would  the  end  be?  He  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  he 
didn't  want  friends. 

He  went  in. 

He  felt  them  looking  at  him  in  some  surprise.  One  girl 
giggled  outright  and  turned  away  in  confusion.  Mary  Ma- 
loney hurriedly  rummaged  among  the  heaps  of  songs  on  the 
piano-top;  selected  one,  quietly  asked  Henry  if  he  knew 
it,  and  struck  into  the  accompaniment. 

The  girls  at  once  began  to  sing. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  41 

Henry  tried  his  voice,  softly  at  first,  even  timidly.  It 
came  as  a  surprise  that  he  could  still  sing.  After  the  years. 
He  was  in  a  tremor  of  self-consciousness  about  it.  Once  or 
twice  he  caught  himself  letting  out  a  little,  and  instantly 
brought  his  voice  down  to  a  whisper.  He  knew  that  the 
moment  he  let  it  go  he  would  become  the  most  conspicuous 
person  in  the  boarding-house.  For  it  was  a  good  voice. 
And  in  it  was  something  of  the  individual  quality,  the  stir- 
ring, even  thrilling  power,  that  was  inherent  in  the  man. 
.  .  .  But  finally,  after  three  or  four  songs,  he  did  let  it  go. 

Shortly  after  this  the  little  gathering  broke  up.  The  girls 
went  their  several  ways  of  the  evening. 

Mary  Maloney  waited,  sorting  out  the  music ;  and  then, 
as  if  it  were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world,  left  the 
room  at  his  side. 

Out  in  the  dim  hall  she  looked  confidently  up  at  him. 

"That  was  splendid,"  she  said.    "I  love  your  voice." 

He  made  a  depreciatory  gesture ;  but  the  flush  of  success 
was  on  him — the  first  small  success  in  four  years. 

''I  have  to  go  to  a  show  to-night/'  he  found  himself  say- 
ing, in  an  eager  tumble  of  words,  "for  the  paper.  At  the 
Cantey  Square.  Would  you  care  to  go?  There's  two 
tickets." 

Her  eyes  opened  wide. 

"Oh,"  she  murmured — "oh — why  yes,  I'd  love  to.  That 
is,  I  think — oh  yes,  it'll  be  all  right.  I  did  have  a  sort  of 
half  engagement,  but  if  you  don't  mind  stopping  at  the  drug 
store  I  can  telephone." 

"We'd  better  start  pretty  soon,"  said  he. 

She  was  looking  him  over,  thoughtfully. 

"You're  absent-minded,  aren't  you  ?"  said  she. 

«I_why— oh!  ..." 

He  saw  now  the  old  alpaca  coat. 

She  took  the  flapping  pocket  between  her  fingers  and 
pulled  him  around  to  the  parlor  light. 

"I  could  sew  this  up,  all  right,  but  I  don't  know  what  we 
could  do  about  all  those  ink-stains.  And  I  could  never  fix 
the  elbows.  You'd  better  put  on  another  coat." 


42  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"It's  at  the  office,"  he  said,  after  a  brief  hesitation.  "If 
you  don't  mind,  I'll  run  up  there  and  change." 

Mary  didn't  mind.  She  was  ready  in  a  few  moments, 
and  they  set  out.  Henry,  walking  once  again  of  an  even- 
ing with  an  attractive  girl  at  his  side,  felt  with  a  touch  of 
dread  that  he  was  letting  go  indeed. 

"Well  go  to  the  Rivoli  afterward  and  have  a  bite,"  he 
said. 

"That'd  be  awfully  nice,"  replied  Mary  Maloney. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

Of  a  Strange  Impulse  That  Calverly  Calls  the  Power 

THE  editorial  and  composing  rooms  of  the  News  were 
in  an  "annex,"  back  of  the  business  office,  reached 
through  an  alley. 

Half-way  down  this  alley  Henry  paused.  Up  there  on 
the  eighth  floor  was  his  coat.  He  had  to  go  for  it.  He 
could  hardly  admit  that  he  was  afraid  to.  But  likely  as  not 
Miss  Daw  would  be  there,  perhaps  alone  in  the  room.  What 
on  earth  could  he  say  to  her?  Why,  he  wasn't  even  ill 
now!  He  felt  pretty  well;  a  little  strung  up,  but  all 
right. 

He  glanced  back.  Mary  Maloney,  loitering  at  the  corner, 
smiled  and  waved  her  hand.  He  could  see  the  smile  by  the 
light  from  the  drug-store  windows. 

He  went  on ;  dove  into  the  building ;  went  up  in  the  ele- 
vator. 

Miss  Daw  was  out.  With  a  deep  sigh  of  relief  he  changed 
coats  and  hurried  back.  He  had  gone  up  there  without  a 
plan,  headlong,  as  he  had  done  so  many  things  during  the 
dreadful  years.  He  would  have  said  something,  of  course ; 
would  have  had  to;  a  confused  and  inadequate  something, 
doubtless.  Miss  Daw  would  have  thought  him  queer.  Peo- 
ple did.  Though  he  wouldn't  mind  that  so  much.  What  he 
did  seem  to  mind  was  the  curious  lurking  fear  that  she 
would  go  on  being  kind  to  him,  taking  him  shrewdly,  quietly 
for  granted.  It  amounted,  this  hazy  fear,  to  a  dread  that 
she  would  prove  too  shrewd  for  him.  He  didn't  know  just 
how ;  at  least  he  didn't  try  to  think  it  out.  He  was  sure  he 
didn't  want  her  in  his  life. 

It  was  pleasant  to  have  Mary  at  his  side  again.  He  wasn't 
afraid  of  her;  only,  in  lucid  moments,  of  the  weakness,  or 

43 


44  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

softness,  or  whatever  it  was  in  himself  that  her  warm  little 
nature  appealed  to. 

Archie  Trent  was  in  the  lobby  of  the  theater,  talking 
with  two  men  of  a  type  unfamiliar  to  Henry.  One  was  old 
and  fat,  the  other  young  and  fat.  The  older  proved  to  be 
the  manager,  the  other  press  agent  for  the  show,  which  bore 
the  rather  alluring  title,  Tlie  Isle  of  Delight.  Archie  brought 
another  man,  thin,  Jewish,  from  a  narrow  door  beside 
ticket  window,  and  introduced  him  as  the  "house  manager." 
He  also  made  occasion  to  whisper  in  Henry's  ear,  "These 
are  good  people.  They  treat  the  paper  white.  You  can 
figure  on  anything  up  to  a  column." 

Archie  rushed  away  then.  The  house  manager,  after  a 
keen  insolent  study  of  the  new  young  man  from  the  News. 
went  back  through  his  narrow  door.  The  fat  old  company 
manager  nodded  curtly  and  moved  off  to  the  entrance.  The 
press  agent  said,  cordially: 

"Be  around  here  in  the  intermission,  won't  you,  Mr.  Staf- 
ford? I'd  like  to  take  you  back  and  introduce  you  to  some 
of  the  girls." 

Henry  accepted  the  invitation  at  its  face  value.  Appar- 
ently it  was  a  part  of  what  was  expected  of  him. 

He  said,  clumsily  enough,  to  Mary,  when  they  were  set- 
tled in  their  seats  and  the  orchestra  had  struck  up  the 
medley  of  cheap  song-hits  that  served  for  overture: 

"I've  done  a  rather  dreadful  thing.  When  I  asked  you, 
I  forgot  I  had  to  write  a  review  to-night.  I — I  haven't  done 
much  of  this  work." 

"You  mean  after?"  said  she,  quickly,  glancing  up  at  him. 
He  knew  that  she  was  surprised  and  impressed  by  his  con- 
nections and  his  work ;  and  in  this  curious  hour  he  was  not 
above  enjoying  it. 

She  added,  "That's  all  right.  I'll  go  along  home.  I'm 
used  to  knocking  around  alone." 

"You'll  do  no  such  thing,"  he  replied,  with  a  vigor  that 
surprised  himself.  'Til  manage  it.  We'll  go  to  the  Rivoli 
just  the  same." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  45 

She  accepted  this  announcement  as  she  had  accepted  the 
idea  of  returning  alone,  naturally,  sensibly. 

"But  it  was  nice  of  you  to  take  it  that  way,"  said  he, 
behind  his  program.  "I  was  stupid.  I  often  am.  I  do  out- 
rageous things."  He  was  chuckling. 

She  chuckled  too.  "You're  absent-minded,  that's  all.  It's 
because  you  write,  and  things.  But  I  really  am  that  way. 
You  see,  I've  had  some  knocks.  And  you  learn,  working 
around  places,  to  take  things  as  you  find  'em." 

"Aren't  you  pretty  young  to  have  worked  out  that  philos- 
ophy ?" 

"I'm  nearly  twenty-four.  That  isn't  young.  Not  when 
you  work." 

"I  can  see  that  you're  a  very  comfortable  person  to  have 
around." 

She  chuckled  again.  "My  friend  once  said  that  I'm  like 
an  old  glove." 

He  considered  this.  A  faint  twinge  of  jealousy  had  ar- 
rested his  expansive  thoughts. 

"Well,"  he  remarked  gravely,  "your  friend  has  figured 
you  out  about  right,  I  imagine." 

The  curtain  rose  then,  and  for  a  few  moments  they 
watched  the  prancing  about  of  a  lot  of  half -dressed  chorus 
girls.  Then  two  young  men  in  naval  uniforms  came  in  and 
outlined  the  plot  in  sketchy  dialogue.  A  soubrette  sang  one 
of  the  cheap  songs  and  danced  the  inevitable  steps.  The 
principal  comedian  appeared,  in  eccentric  make-up,  and 
climbed  out  over  the  footlights  to  the  top  of  a  piano  in 
the  orchestra  pit,  from  which  point  of  vantage  he  began 
a  brief  comic  speech  that  soon  ran  off  into  personal  banter 
with  friends  in  the  audience. 

The  audience  clearly  thought  it  an  excellent  show.  The 
crowded  house  rocked  with  laughter  and  applause.  But 
Henry  was  utterly  out  of  touch  with  the  mental  attitude  in 
which  the  entertainment  was  conceived  by  the  producers  and 
performers  and  received  by  the  audience.  The  jokes  dealt 
with  subjects  which  were  current  in  the  minds  of  all ;  the 


with  sub_ 


46  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

songs  were  rearrangements  of  bits  of  tune  and  rhythm  that 
were  popular  musical  language  of  the  day ;  to  Henry  it  was 
an  alien  tongue.  But  it  was  clearly  the  tongue  of  the  peo- 
ple who  worked  in  the  stores  and  offices  and  crowded  the 
dirty  street-cars  in  the  rush  hours.  It  even  seemed  to  be 
in  some  degree  the  language  of  the  more  well-to-do.  For 
the  Hill  was  largely  represented;  many  prosperous  couples 
were  scattered  among  the  orchestra  seats;  there  was  the 
glint  of  silk  and  silver  and  the  soft  shine  of  powdered 
shoulders.  Henry  looked  about  from  the  stage  to  the  peo- 
ple in  the  darkened  auditorium  with  a  sinking  of  the  heart. 
He  wondered  what  he  could  possibly  say  about  the  per- 
formance that  those  people  would  accept.  His  thoughts 
wandered  off  again  into  the  vague,  dreamlike  region  in 
which  much  of  his  mental  life  had  been  spent.  The  old 
depression,  from  moment  to  moment,  was  coming  back  over 
his  momentarily  revived  spirit.  It  was,  therefore,  a  relief  to 
feel  Mary  leaning  against  his  shoulder  and  speaking  softly 
at  his  ear.  He  had  thought  her  deep  in  the  performance; 
certainly  she  had  been  humming  a  little  with  the  singers. 
He  didn't  know  that  he  had  been  sitting  for  a  long  time  in 
moody  silence,  and  that  she  had  glanced  up  at  him  more 
than  once. 

"I  am  like  that,"  she  was  saying,  "like  an  old  glove,  I 
mean.  You'd  be  surprised  at  the  things  I  really  like.  .  .  . 
Oh,  cooking,  things  like  that.  And  sewing,  too.  Funny ! 
Most  of  the  girls  aren't  like  that.  They're  crazy  over  these 
shows  and  parties  and  all.  Like  'em  well  enough,  but 
I  like  the  other  things  better.  Lots  of  evenings,  when  I  ju.-t 
stay  home  and  mend  things  and  maybe  read  a  little,  I'm 
happiest." 

A  dreamy  smile  came  over  Henry's  face.  Her  hand  lay 
on  his  arm  of  the  seat.  He  dropped  his  over  it.  Once 
again  her  fingers  twisted  about  his  in  the  simple  responsive- 
ness that  so  disarmed  him.  And  once  again  the  warmth  of 
all  womankind,  of  all  human  relationship,  seemed  to  find 
a  way  through  her  to  his  heart.  His  eyes  filled.  He  was 
glad  of  the  darkness.  Though  it  didn't  matter.  She  would 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  47 

have  taken  tears  as  she  took  everything,  without  question, 
simply.  Even  when  she  said,  "I  seen  this  Adele  Hilde- 
brande  last  year  in  Butterfly  Beth,"  he  was  not  disturbed  by 
the  solecism.  That  her  environment  had  been  in  certain 
respects  unfortunate  didn't  seem  to  matter. 

Indeed  so  fortified  was  he  by  her  friendship  that  he  went 
through  the  ordeal  of  moving  about  the  stage  and  the  dingy 
dressing-rooms,  during  the  intermission,  without  open  dis- 
courtesy to  any  one,  least  of  all  to  the  effusive  press  agent 
who  showed  him  around.  He  was  cold  within,  as  he  per- 
ceived, in  a  moment  of  illumination,  the  craft  of  this  man. 
It  was  the  plan  to  weave  a  web  about  him,  a  web  of  girls. 

A  fact  stood  out,  an  exciting  fact.  He  had  braved  the 
theater  management,  the  audience  and  the  people  of  the 
stage  now,  and  had  not  been  recognized.  The  years  had  not 
passed  in  vain.  Life  had  closed  over  his  head  and  gone 
busily  on  without  him.  He  was  in  almost  a  gay  mood  as 
he  and  Mary  walked  to  the  Rivoli.  He  moved  in  proudly 
among  the  throng  of  after-theater  patrons.  His  mind,  so 
long  deadened,  was  quickening  to  the  little  task  before  him. 

They  found  a  table  in  the  rear  of  the  vast  room,  half- 
hidden  behind  the  platform  on  which  the  small  orchestra 
played  and  a  young  woman  sang  sentimental  ballads.  Here, 
during  one  tense  moment,  he  felt  painfully  in  his  pocket  for 
money.  It  was  all  right ;  he  had  enough.  He  ordered  lav- 
ishly. Mary,  though  she  protested,  was  flattered. 

The  crowd  settled  all  about  them  at  the  dim  little  tables, 
each  with  its  candle  under  a  red  shade.  The  music  crashed 
in  their  ears.  The  waiters  and  bus  boys  moved  silently 
about  through  the  aisles.  And  the  invisibly  joined  mirrors 
that  lined  the  walls  and  encased  the  square  columns  multi- 
plied the  picture  and  intensified  the  color  and  movement. 

And  then,  his  color  high,  a  kindling  glow  in  his  pleasant 
gray-blue  eyes  (they  were  abnormally  dark  now,  the  pupils 
much  enlarged),  Henry  produced  a  wad  of  copy  paper  and 
plunged  at  the  task  of  writing  his  review.  He  worked  ten- 
tatively, at  first,  with  many  erasures  and  much  crumpling 
of  paper,  then  with  increasing  sureness  and  speed,  until 


48  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

finally  his  pencil  was  flying  over  the  paper,  sheet  after 
sheet  of  it. 

His  food  came.  He  moved  it  aside  and  wrote  on.  Mary 
nibbled  hers,  and  watched  without  a  word.  He  didn't  know 
that  any  woman  of  feeling,  simple  or  sophisticated,  would 
have  found  him  all  but  irresistibly  attractive  in  this  hour. 
But  he  was  aware  of  Mary.  Occasionally  he  gave  her  a 
smile.  Once  he  said,  "Go  on  and  eat.  Don't  mind  me." 

People  at  near-by  tables  glanced  at  him.  There  was 
a  developing  force  in  him  that  seemed  to  reach  out  and  com- 
pel attention  from  every  side. 

At  length  he  finished.  He  leaned  over  then  and  read  it  to 
Mary  in  a  low  eager  voice.  She  was  a  thought  bewildered. 
She  heard  only  a  phrase  here  and  there.  She  was  think- 
ing that  he  ought  to  have  his  suit  pressed.  And  the  top 
button  of  his  coat  was  loose.  Somebody  ought  to  look 
after  him.  A  woman. 

From  the  little  she  did  hear,  Mary  realized  that  she  was 
sharing,  in  a  way,  a  brilliant  performance.  He  hadn't  liked 
The  Isle  of  Delight.  That  was  plain.  Though  during  the 
performance  there  had  been  no  indication  that  he  outright 
loathed  it  But  for  that  matter,  this  piece  about  it  that  he 
had  just  written  so  intently  didn't  sound  like  him.  It  was  a 
rush  of  bright  crackling  words.  She  thought  it  wonderful. 
Under  the  spell  of  his  voice  and  his  biting  witty  phrases, 
her  own  simple  enjoyment  of  the  jingling  tunes  faded  out. 
He  lifted  her  with  him.  Though  she  could  never  have  per- 
ceived the  bad  qualities  he  felt  in  the  show — the  crude 
creaking  mechanism  of  its  structure,  the  staleness  of  the 
jokes,  utter  want  of  sparkle  and  spontaneity  in  the  comedy, 
the  lack  of  grace  and  originality  in  the  dancing,  the  hope- 
lessly vulgar  appeal  of  the  whole  performance,  aimed,  as  it 
flatly  was,  at  the  lowest  emotions  of  the  audience — she  now 
felt  with  him,  saw  it  through  his  eyes. 

The  difficulty  was,  she  felt,  that  she  couldn't  hold  herself 
at  that  high  mental  level  without  help.  And  the  moisture 
that  came  to  her  eyes  was  drawn  there  partly  by  this  thought 
(it  was  partly,  of  course,  sheer  excitement)  that  he  was 
too  high  above  her.  that  he  would  soon  be  mounting  where 


. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  49 

he  belonged,  with  the  bright  rich  people  on  Hill,  or  in 
New  York.  He'd  never  be  staying  long  in  a  cheap  little 
boarding-house  out  Peck  Avenue  way.  She  knew  that  unerr- 
ingly. She  wondered  if  he  would  lend  her  books  that  would 
help  her ;  books  about  real  people  that  lived  and  worked  and 
loved.  Though  she  had  on  several  occasions,  in  passing 
along  the  third-floor  hall,  glanced  into  his  room,  and  had 
seen  few  books  there.  For  some  reason  he  was  very  poor. 
And  he  was  in  trouble.  She  had  sensed  that,  of  cour.se,  at 
the  start.  It  would  be  a  woman.  .  .  .  He  might 
be  willing  to  suggest  a  list  of  books  that  she  could  get  from 
the  library. 

He  called  for  a  messenger  boy.  Magnificently,  she 
thought.  And  she  couldn't  help  seeing  that  he  tipped  the 
boy  a  quarter  for  a  fifteen-cent  errand.  She  wanted  to  sug- 
gest that  they  walk  around  by  the  News  office  instead ;  but 
said  nothing. 

He  ate  his  cold  food  ravenously.  He  was  exuberant; 
talked  a  good  deal.  They  sat  with  their  elbows  on  the 
table  sipping  coffee  until  the  orchestra  men  packed  their 
instruments  and  the  crowd  thinned  down  to  a  few  couples, 
and  the  waiters  began  piling  the  chairs  on  the  tables  and 
switching  off  the  lights. 

She  had  never  known  such  a  man.  He  said  strange 
thrilling  things. 

"There've  been  some  wonderful  times  in  my  life.  Not  of 
late  years — but  when  I  was  younger.  A  sort  of  power  that 
comes  over  me.  Makes  you  feel  that  you  can  do  anything. 
Play  with  ideas  and  people  and  life.  Like  a  god  sitting  up 
there  looking  down  on  all  of  us.  It's  wonderful.  You  don't 
know.  I  didn't  think  I'd  ever  feel  it  again.  But  I've  got 
it!  Oh,  I've  got  it!  And  now  I  know  that  it's  still  there, 
that  it'll  keep  on  coming,  even  if  only  once  in  a  great  while. 
And  whatever  happens,  give  me  that  and  they  can't  lick  me. 

ot  quite.    Not  for  good." 

She  was  watching  him,  wide-eyed,  her  cheeks  on  her  two 
little  hands.  She  knew  that  she  hardly  mattered  to  him. 
She  didn't  mind  this  much. 


50  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"They  won't  lick  you,"  she  said,  unable  to  take  her  eyes 
from  his  face,  over  which  a  shadow  was  crossing  now.  That 
would  be  his  trouble  again.  She  wondered  what  manner  of 
woman  it  could  be  that  could  be  cruel  to  such  a  man.  Why, 
he  was  a  child!  Mary  knew  men  well  enough,  the  men  of 
her  own  world,  their  good  points  and  their  crude  rough 
demands.  She  took  them  as  a  matter  of  course.  Until  last 
night  and  to-night  she  hadn't  known  that  there  was  another 
kind  outside  of  books  and  plays. 

All  the  way  home  in  the  street-car  she  sat  close  to  him. 
At  the  transfer  station  she  slipped  her  hand  through  his 
arm  without  a  thought. 

They  lingered  a  little  while  on  the  front  steps  and  looked 
again  at  the  moon.  Their  voices  were  hushed  with 
a  sort  of  happiness.  He  put  his  arm  about  her  shoulders, 
and  she  cuddled  against  him.  Once  she  glanced  up  timidly, 
but  he  didn't  stoop  to  meet  her.  Instead,  he  gazed  out  at 
the  moon  behind  the  poplar  tree.  And  a  moment  later 
he  said: 

"It's  pretty  late,  Mary." 

They  went  in  then,  and  ascended  the  two  flights  together, 
very  quietly. 

Before  his  door  they  paused.  Rather  breathlessly  she 
whispered : 

"How  still  it  is !    They're  all  asleep." 

Then  they  stood,  silent.  Her  physical  nearness  brought  a 
thrill  that  frightened  him.  He  felt  himself  swaying  toward 
her.  He  bit  his  lip ;  tried  to  get  his  clouded  brain  clear ; 
moved  half  a  step,  irresolute,  toward  his  door;  stopped. 

Then  she  whispered,  "Wait !"  and  tiptoed  away. 

He  heard  her  moving  about  in  her  room  looking  for 
matches ;  saw  the  yellow  glow  when  she  lit  the  gas ;  faintly 
saw  her  coming  back  with  something  in  her  hand. 

It  proved  to  be  a  spool  of  thread.  He  had  to  wait  while 
she  threaded  a  needle.  Then  she  sewed  on  tightly  the  top 
button  of  his  coat. 

He  smiled  in  the  dark ;  all  nerves. 


She  leaned  forward,  bit  off  the  thread,  and  stepped  away. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  51 

But,  with  a  whispered  good  night,  she  leaned  forward,  bit 
off  the  thread,  and  slipped  away. 

Henry  softly  opened  and  closed  the  door  of  his  own  room, 
and  lit  the  gas. 

There  was  a  strange  suit-case  on  a  chair. 

He  whirled  about.  Humphrey  Weaver  lay  on  the  sofa, 
half  dressed  and  covered  with  his  overcoat  and  Henry's 
threadbare  quilt. 

Good  old  Hump !  It  was  fine  of  him  to  come  back.  But 
Henry  couldn't  talk  now.  His  head  was  in  a  whirl.  He 
stood,  irresolute,  trying  to  think ;  and  ended  by  turning  out 
the  gas,  undressing  in  the  dark  and  slipping  into  bed. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

Of  Friendship,  Love  and  the  Job  of  Living 

THEY  had  breakfast  at  the  Rivoli. 
"Finished    up    in    Cincinnati    yesterday    noon,"    said 
Humphrey.     He  had  had  to  make  talk  all  the  way  in  on 
the  street-cars.     "It  gave  me  a  little  extra  time,  so  I  ran 
up  here." 

Henry  gloomily  sipped  his  coffee. 

"Fact  is" — Humphrey  clipped  an  imported  cigar — "that 
little  chat  of  ours  the  other  night  struck  me  as  curiously  un- 
satisfactory." 

Henry  bowed  over  his  cup. 

"Of  course,  Hen — we've  seen  so  little  of  each  other  these 
recent  years,  and  we've  been  going  on  in  our  separate  roads 
— there  would  be  a  little  adjusting  to  do.  We'd  have  to 
find  each  other  out,  as  we're  doing  now.  Friends  have  to 
allow  for  that  of  course,  as  time  goes  along." 

It  wasn't  a  good  beginning.  Humphrey  took  refuge  in 
the  business  of  lighting  his  cigar.  Then  he  held  it  up  and 
watched  the  smoke  curl  away  from  it.  His  brows  were  knit, 
as  they  always  were  when  his  mind  was  intent  on  a  problem; 
his  long  swarthy  face  had  broken  into  a  hundred  wrinkles. 

"Been  thinking  you  over,  Hen.  You  mustn't  mind.  But 
first.  .  .  .  Look  here,  tell  me  a  little  about  yourself — 
what  you're  doing,  how  you're  living." 

"There's  darn  little  to  tell." 

"I'm  going  to  talk  right  out.  I  want  to  help  you,  Hen. 
And  it's — well,  difficult.  You  are  the  most  gifted  man  I've 
ever  known.  You're  young.  How  old?  Twenty-eight — 
nine—" 

"Twenty-seven,"  Henry  mumbled. 

"Good  lord!  That's  only  the  beginning  of  things!  And 
you've  got  as  much  health  as  a  man  needs.  I  doubt  if 

52 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  53 

you've  been  eating  just  right,  but  that  isn't  serious  at  your 
age.  I  don't  think  you've  ever  done  much  of  any  drinking, 
have  you?" 

Henry's  head  moved  in  the  negative. 

"Well,  there  we  are !  But  you  look — I'm  talking  out — all 
in,  seedy.  Now  tell  me,  how  far  have  you  gone  with  this 
false  name,  this  'Stafford'  thing?" 

Henry's  hand  moved  in  an  uncomfortable  little  gesture. 
"It's  my  name  here,"  he  replied.  "It's  all  they  know  about 
me." 

"Well — I  don't  know  as  that  matters  much.  It  hasn't  gone 
far.  I've  come  over  here,  Hen,  with  the  idea  of  suggesting 
that  you  let  me  in  on  it." 

"How — how  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Oh,  do  the  sensible  thing — let  you  have  a  little  money, 
put  you  somewhere  out  in  the  country  where  you  can  work 
outdoors  and  write  if  you — " 

Henry's  hand  waved  again,  listlessly.  "I've  done  all  that, 
Hump.  It's  no  good.  Just  means  debts,  and  too  much 
thinking." 

"But  anyway,  just  as  a  start,  I  want  to  get  you  away  from 
this  town.  It  looks  like  a  false  start  to  me." 

"They've  all  been  false  starts,  Hump."  Then  the  mem- 
ory of  something  he  had  felt  so  strongly  years  ago,  and 
again,  unexpectedly,  rather  wonderfully,  only  a  few  hours 
ago,  in  this  very  restaurant,  gathered  strength  among  his 
thoughts,  gathered  strength  enough,  indeed,  to  override  mo- 
mentarily the  depression  Humphrey's  appearance  had 
caused — a  sensation  that  had  been  intensified  by  the  steady 
intent  look  of  prosperity  in  the  man's  strong  face,  by  the  cut 
of  his  imported  clothes,  his  silk-and-gold  watch-fo5,  his 
heavy  silk  tie,  the  Havana  cigar  he  was  smoking,  the  money 
he  was  so  easily  spending  on  this  rather  elaborate  break- 
fast. 

"Last  night  a  big  thing  happened,  Hump.  I  did  a  real 
piece  of  writing.  The  first  since  those  days  in  Sunbury. 
I — I  got  pretty  excited  over  it.  Oh,  it  didn't  amount  to 
much ;  just  a  play  review  they  sent  me  out  to  do.  But  it  was 


54  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

good.  The  real  stuff.  You  can  always  tell,  you  know;  it 
gets  to  coming  with  a  rush,  so  you  just  can't  write  fast 
enough  to  keep  up  with  it,  and  then  you  feel  empty  and 
happy  afterward.  That's  the  sure  sign,  I  think — when  it 
leaves  you  feeling  that  way." 

There  was  a  glow  in  his  eyes  now,  behind  the  glasses. 
And  his  color  was  rising.  He  lowered  his  eyes  and  fingered 
his  cup. 

Humphrey  studied  him.  His  intent  frown  deepened.  He 
smoked  and  thought.  Henry  was  telling  him  what  he  most 
feared  to  hear.  At  any  moment  the  boy's  genius  might 
break  out ;  and  then  the  crazy  little  house  of  cards  in  which 
he  thought  he  was  hiding  himself  from  the  world  would 
come  tumbling  in  a  breath  about  his  ears. 

And  it  was  more  difficult,  each  moment,  to  think  out  a 
course.  None  of  the  plans  Humphrey  had  laid  out  on  the 
train  seemed  to  apply  now.  He  had  counted  on  talking  sense 
to  Henry,  "from  the  shoulder."  But  you  couldn't  talk  to 
Henry  from  the  shoulder.  Everything  had  been  taken  from 
him,  long  since,  except  the  personal  direction,  for  better 
or  worse,  of  his  life.  Humphrey  was  seeing  now  that  you 
couldn't  take  that  from  him  if  you  wanted  to.  You  could 
only  hurt  him,  drive  him  farther  off,  intensify  his  solitude. 
Humphrey  knew  well  enough  that  any  human -spirit  is  the 
most  fragile  thing  in  the  world ;  but  in  his  eagerness  to  help 
his  old  friend  he  had  rushed  his  judgment.  Debts  wouldn't 
help  any.  Henry  was  right  enough  there.  .  .  .  The  prob- 
lem began  to  look  again  as  it  had  looked  for  years ;  it  was, 
after  all,  one  of  those  cases  from  which  you  must  stand 
aside,  hiding  your  concern,  and  hoping  that  some  day  there 
might  come  a  chance  to  help. 

Yes,  Humphrey  saw  the  whole  thing  now.  The  gulf  be- 
tween them,  that  both  had  felt  so  clearly  during  the  awk- 
ward little  talk  in  the  railway  station,  was  real.  Nothing 
could  be  done  about  it.  Humphrey's  own  success,  the 
definite  outlook  on  life  that  comes  with  money  in  pocket  and 
bank,  the  surface  hardening  that  comes  with  years  of  bar- 
gaining and  planning  and  driving  toward  tangible  results, 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  55 

the  opportunity  to  rise  above  small  personal  worries  and  let 
the  mind  range,  keep  it  ranging — all  this  showed,  of  course, 
in  his  eyes,  his  carriage,  the  tone  of  his  voice.  It  couldn't 
be  hidden;  it  was  fact.  While  Henry's  moody  lassitude  of 
spirit,  his  poverty,  his  pitiful  detachment  from  life,  his  shab- 
biness — these  were  all  fact,  too. 

A  curious  complication  was  Henry's  strength.  For  he 
was  strong,  in  his  yielding,  dreamy,  elusive  way.  Humphrey 
felt  none  too  sure  that  he  could  have  endured  what  Henry 
had.  The  boy  had  never  for  a  moment  in  his  life  surrendered 
his  judgment  to  another.  It  had  never  been  conscious  resist- 
ance ;  it  was  simply  that  he  couldn't.  He  didn't  even  know 
that  that  was  what  you  did.  Humphrey  recalled  with  a 
faint  twisted  smile,  certain  occasions,  away  back  in  the  old 
Sunbury  days,  when  Henry  had  tried  to  work  for  other 
men. 

But  he  was  speaking,  talking  out  at  last. 

"Do  you  think,  Hump — do  you  think  a  man  can  love 
more  than  one  woman  in  his  life?" 

Humphrey  pursed  his  lips.  "Well,  Hen,  it's  never  hap- 
pened to  me  but  the  one  time.  But  it's  possible.  At  least  it 
seems  to  happen.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  know  just  what  that 
word  'love'  means.  It  may  be  a  combination  of  emotions 
and  needs  that  takes  different  forms  at  times.  Perhaps  a 
man  can  love  two  women  for  wholly  differing  reasons,  or 
with  different  sides  of  his  nature.  I  don't  know.  Or  per- 
haps he  is  really  a  different  being  at  different  times  in  his 
life." 

"I  think  that's  what  I  was  wondering." 

"Is  there  some  one  now,  Hen  ?" 

"No,  there  isn't.  But  I've  been  puzzled.  I  started  to 
make  love  to  a  girl  last  night.  It  seems  to  have  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  that  piece  of  writing.  Or  it  really  began 
the  night  before.  She's  a  very  nice  little  girl — a  working 
girl — but  I  don't  love  her.  She's  hardly  even  a  definite  per- 
son to  me.  She's  just  gentle,  unobtrusive,  very  kind  and 
comfortable." 


56  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

He  hesitated.  There  was  a  drawn  look  about  his  eyes 
now,  and  his  color  had  gone  down. 

"You  see,  Hump,  it's — it's  the  first  time  anything  like  that 
has  happened.  I've  been — well,  I've  felt  that  I  just  wanted 
to  live  alone  with  Cicely's  memory.  I — I  couldn't  bear  to 
think  of  anything  like  this." 

"It's  not  unnatural,  Hen." 

"I  know.    It's  what  people  do.    But  I  thought — " 

His  voice  faltered. 

Humphrey  leaned  forward  on  the  table. 

"Hen,"  he  said  abruptly,  "you're  making  it  possible  for 
me  to  say  part  of  what  I  really  came  over  here  to  say  to 
you.  I  didn't  know  before  how  to  get  to  it.  I've  had  no 
such  terrible  experience  as  yours,  but  I  was  torn  all  to 
pieces — for  years ;  you  know — with  love  for  a  woman.  I'm 
only  just  getting  over  it.  I  can  see  now — and  I'm  applying 
this,  now,  only  to  myself,  not  to  you — that  I  was  coddling 
my  grief,  indulging  myself.  That  may  sound  hard,  but  it's 
my  present  judgment.  I  can  see  now  that  I  may  marry 
some  day.  Perhaps  it  will  be  another  deep  love;  perhaps 
it  will  be  just  loneliness  and  the  desire  to  share  my  life  and 
have  children  and  to  give  myself  up,  as  a  service,  to  making 
them  all  happy.  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you,  Hen,  that  in 
the  case  of  a  man  who  has  married  and  stayed  married,  and 
reared  and  educated  a  family,  and  made  a  good  clean  job 
of  it  for  thirty  or  forty  years,  to  a  respectable  death,  that 
you  can't  possibly  know  to  what  extent  he  may  have  been 
inspired  by  the  emotion  we  call  love.  Why,  you  can't  even 
say,  if  it  wasn't  love,  but  an  instinct  for  service  and  deepen- 
ing affection  and  the  sense  for  a  good  job,  that  the  man 
would  have  been  anywhere  near  as  happy  if  he  had  indulged 
some  flaming  passion  for  a  particular  woman." 

"I  don't  know's  I  ever  thought  of  that,"  mused  Henry. 
And  after  a  moment,  he  added,  gloomily,  "Of  course,  I 
haven't  made  a  good  job  of  it." 

"There  are  circumstances,  Hen,  in  which  any  sort  of  a 
job  is  impossible.  That's  what  you've  had  to  go  through. 
You  couldn't  help  it." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  57 

"No — I  don't  see  how  I  could  have." 

"Absolutely,  you  couldn't." 

"But  I  can't  tell  you — it  sort  of  bewilders  me — how  I  feel 
about  all  this.  I  mean,  finding  I  can  even  look  at  a  woman, 
and  feeling  a  little,  just  a  touch,  of  the  power  again  and — 
well,  it's  got  me  upset,  I  suppose.  It  makes  me  realize  how 
far  I've  been  from  life,  and  what  a  tangle  it  is  when  you 
get  drawn  into  it,  and  .  .  ." 

His  voice  trailed  off. 

"Yes,  Hen,  it's  a  tangle  for  all  of  us.  But  we're  all  in  it, 
keeping  our  heads  up  the  best  we  can.  I  suppose  that  the 
little  girl  is  just  one  of  the  tentacles  of  life  reaching  for 
you." 

"I'm  afraid  so.  I  wish  I  could  see.  .  .  .  It's  very 
puzzling.  .  .  .  These  years  have  been  bitter,  Hump, 
but  they've  been  wonderful,  too.  I've  been  alone,  but  I've 
been  exalted,  sort  of."  His  voice  was  unsteady  now.  "I 
used  to  think  I  could  stay  like  that." 

Humphrey  slowly,  almost  grimly,  shook  his  head.  But 
his  voice  and  manner,  when  he  spoke,  were  very  gentle. 

"I'm  afraid  you  can't  stay  up  on  that  plane,  Hen.  You've 
got,  sooner  or  later,  to  pitch  into  the  big  row  with  the  rest 
of  us.  One  way  or  another.  It's — it's  a  better  way  to 
build  a  monument,  Hen.  You  may  even  love  a  woman. 
Yes,  you  may !  And  it  would  be  better.  For  you,  particu- 
larly. I  can,  if  it  comes  to  that,  go  it  alone.  But  I'm  harder 
stuff  than  you.  You've  got  too  much  feeling  in  you.  Sooner 
or  later,  as  you  get  your  feet  back  on  the  ground,  you've 
got  to  give  that  feeling  to  somebody.  Don't  waste  it  on  lit- 
tle girls  that  you  can't  take  along  with  you." 

Henry  threw  out  his  hands.  "Oh,  I  couldn't  do  that, 
Hump!  I — I've  been  thinking  perhaps  I'd  leave  that  board- 
ing-house." 

"It  might  be  well.  And  Hen" — they  were  starting  now 
for  Humphrey's  train — "if  it  does  work  out  in  your  mind 
that  you'd  like  to  quit  this  town  and  begin  to  work  the 
thing  out  under  your  own  name,  why — well,  remember  I'd 


58  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

be  proud  to  have  you  let  me  help.  Any  old  way — money, 
time,  anything." 

"But  I've  really  got  something  started  here,"  said  Henry, 
eagerly  now.  "You  don't  know  how  it  stirred  me  to  feel 
the  old  thing  working  again.  And  it's  bound  to  make  a  dif- 
ference at  the  paper.  Don't  you  suppose  I  know  that  they 
don't  get  a  piece  of  writing  like  that  very  often!  They'll 
have  to  give  me  a  real  chance  now." 

This  was  the  hopelessly  impractical  Henry.  He  didn't 
realize  the  fix  he  was  in.  And  there  was  no  way  to  point  it 
out  without,  perhaps,  crushing  him  again.  At  least  Hum- 
phrey couldn't  think  of  any.  The  prospect,  to  Humphrey's 
keen  and  orderly  vision,  was  black,  black.  Better,  perhaps, 
after  all,  to  leave  him  with  his  moment  of  enthusiasm. 

They  stood  again  in  the  sooty,  noisy  train  shed. 

"Just  one  other  thing,  Hen.  I  don't  know  just  how  you 
feel  about  it  now,  but  things  are  rather  bad  out  there  in 
Illinois." 

"You — you  mean— oh,  that?" 

"Yes,  Madame  Watt.  She's  been  getting  out  of  hand. 
They  thought  two  or  three  times  she  was  dying.  Then  she 
fired  the  doctors  and  took  up  some  new  mental  treatment,  a 
fad  of  some  sort.  The  lawyers  have  been  after  me  to  know 
where  you  are." 

"Hump,  you  haven't — " 

"Not  a  word !   But  I  must  tell  you  the  situation." 

"Oh,  I  can't!    You  don't  know— " 

"Please  try  to  listen,  Hen.  It's  not  pleasant,  but  I  prom- 
ised that  lawyer  I'd  at  least  tell  you.  He's  come  clear  to 
New  York  twice  after  me.  You  see,  I  want  to  give  him 
some  word,  or  he'll  have  to  run  you  down  himself  and  make 
more  trouble  for  you." 

Henry  steeled  himself  to  listen. 

"They  can't  do  a  thing  with  her.  She's  doing  queer  things 
with  her  money  now — getting  it  away  from  them,  and  then 
it  disappears." 

"Hump,  you  know  I  don't — " 

"Wait,  please.    She  has  you  on  her  mind.    She  asks  for 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  59 

you.  This  lawyer — what's  his  name,  Parker,  H.  C.  or  H.  B. 
Parker — has  a  notion  that  she's  already  hired  a  detective 
agency  to  find  you." 

The  last  faint  color  left  Henry's  face. 

"If  that's  true,  of  course  they  will  find  you.  They  won't 
care  how  much  of  her  money  they  spend.  It  may  be  neces- 
sary, at  least,  for  you  to  run  out  there  and  see  this  man 
Parker.  I  wouldn't  let  him  find  you  here,  with  things  as 
they  are — " 

"Oh,  no,  of  course  not !" 

"Then  there's  another  thing.  She  hasn't  a  person  in  the 
world  to  cling  to.  It's  a  question,  even  considering  every- 
thing, whether  you  can  leave  the  woman  to  die  like  an 
animal." 

Henry  stood  silent,  downcast. 

"I  hate  to  bother  you  with  this,  Hen,  but  there's  a  pos- 
sibility that  you  may  have  to  take  some  action.  If  it  comes 
to  choosing  between  humoring  her  a  little  or  standing  some 
pretty  mean  publicity." 

"You  think  I  ought  to — to  try  to  see  her?" 

He  spoke  huskily,  pausing  to  moisten  his  lips. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Hen,  I'll  keep  in  touch  with  Parker, 
and  wire  you  if  it  really  seems  necessary  for  you  to  go." 

Henry  said,  "Thank  you." 

"Tell  me  this,  Hen — have  you  any  cash  at  all?  _in,ough 
for  a  trip,  and — well,  clothes?" 

Henry  nodded  quickly. 

There  was  no  telling  what  was  in  his  mind  now. 

Humphrey  had  to  run  foj  his  train, 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 
In  Which  Calverly  Sleeps  at  the  Union  Station 

WHEN  Mr.  Hitt  got  to  his  desk  at  noon  of  the  follow- 
ing day,  he  found  a  manuscript — written,  legibly,  in 
pencil,  on  rough  copy  paper — lying  there.     Clipped  to  it 
was  a  scrawl  from  Mr.  Listerly: 

"H.  R.  H. 

"Please  read  the  attached. 

"R.  B.  L." 

Late  that  night,  toward  one  o'clock  when  the  telegraph 
instruments  down  on  the  eighth  floor  were  at  last  quiet,  the 
city  room  turned  over  to  the  cleaners,  and  the  night  switch- 
board girl  yawning  behind  her  novel,  Mr.  Listerly  closed  his 
desk,  put  on  his  hat,  threw  his  overcoat  over  his  arm,  and 
then,  before  leaving  the  building,  drifted  up  to  the  library, 
where  Mr.  Hitt,  like  himself  and  his  down-stairs  employees, 
exhibited  signs  of  closing  up  for  the  night. 

Mr.  Listerly  lay  on  his  elbow  across  Mr.  Hitt's  desk. 
He  was  a  man  of  fifty-odd,  with  a  cropped  grayish  mus- 
tache, tired  eyes,  and  a  rather  firm  mouth. 

"They're  going  to  unveil  the  Cantey  Memorial  Fountain," 
he  remarked  casually.  "Are  you  up  on  the  Cantey  stuff?'* 

Mr.  Hitt  stepped  to  the  "Can-Cat"  drawer  in  the  first 
alcove  of  filing  cabinets,  and  returned  with  several  manila 
folders. 

The  publisher  glanced  through  the  top  folder,  said  ab- 
sently, "That's  good,"  sat  up,  clasped  his  knee,  talked  around 
his  cigar. 

"This  man  Stafford's  a  curious  case.  Know  anything 
about  him?" 

Mr.  Hitt  was  glad,  for  a  moment,  that  he  could  busy  him- 

60 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  61 

self  with  the  cigar  his  chief  had  given  him.  Evasion  never 
came  easily  to  him. 

"Very  little.    I  reviewed  his  book." 

"How  was  it?" 

"Oh — fair.    An  honest  enough  job.    The  man  has  gifts." 

"Hmm!"  Mr.  Listerly  smoked  for  a  little  while.  "Wish 
I  knew  what  to  do  with  him.  You  see,  Guard  sent  him 
to  me." 

Mr.  Guard  was  head  of  the  book  publishing  business  at 
Hannah  and  Guard,  in  New  York.  He  had  been  a  college 
classmate  of  Mr.  Listerly,  and  had  worked  with  him,  years 
back,  shortly  after  James  H.  Cantey  bought  the  paper,  here 
on  the  News. 

"He  published  that  book,  and  took  an  interest  in  Staf- 
ford. Seemed  to  think  a  little  knockabout  newspaper  expe- 
rience would  make  a  man  of  him.  .  .  .  Hmm!  .  .  . 
Did  you  read  that  review  he  wrote  ?" 

Mr.  Hitt  nodded. 

"What  did  you  think  of  it?" 

"The  best  piece  of  writing  I've  ever  seen  here." 

"Hmm !  .  .  .  Yes,  it  was  well  written.  But  can  you 
use  good  writing  in  a  newspaper?  I  wonder." 

Mr.  Hitt  smiled  dryly.  Mr.  Listerly  smiled  slightly  him- 
self ;  then  said: 

"I  don't  know  what  on  earth  to  do  with  him.  I've  had 
to  take  him  off  Trent's  hands,  of  course.  The  thing  made 
a  bit  of  a  row  last  night.  Trent  wasn't  here — seems  to  have 
been  having  a  nice  little  supper  with  this  Madeline  Meyne 
person.  He'd  sent  in  his  own  review  of  the  Meyne  play. 
But  they  stopped  this  thing  of  Stafford's  at  the  copy  desk. 
Then  it  came  up  to  me.  I  sent  out  and  brought  Trent  in. 
He  had  to  sit  down  and  write  a  review  that  we  could  print. 
He  was  quite  excited  about  it." 

"I  wonder,  Mr.  Listerly — really — why  couldn't  we  have  a 
little  real  criticism,  like  that?  Don't  you  think  that  the 
sparkle  and  snap  in  it  might — " 

"Absolutely  not.  Our  readers  aren't  interested  in  the 
drama  as  art,  but  as  entertainment.  Entertaining  is  a  legiti- 


62  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

% 

mate  business.  Hazardous,  difficult,  but  legitimate.  We 
have  no  more  right  to  attack  this  show  at  the  Cantey  Square 
than  we  have  to  attack  the  Rumpelheims  because  we  don't 
like  their  taste  in  striped  shirtings." 

Mr.  Hitt  knew  that  it  was  never  worth  while  opposing 
Mr.  Listerly's  views.  He  suppressed  a  sigh. 

"The  theater  people  would  raise  Ned,  of  course,"  he  finally 
admitted. 

"They" — Mr.  Listerly  smoked  reflectively — "would  raise 
hell.  Morton  would  have  to  go  to  them  on  his  knees  to  get 
their  advertising  back.  .  .  .  But  about  this  Stafford 
person.  I  had  an  odd  little  session  with  him.  Extraordi- 
narily naive.  Inclined  to  make  a  scene.  Doesn't  seem  to 
hear  all  you  say  to  him.  Trent  evidently  gave  him  a  good 
dressing  down.  So  then  he  came  to  me.  Tried  to  make 
me  admit  the  thing  was  good  writing.  As  if  it  mattered. 
Then  he  seemed  to  tire  out — got  meek,  almost  abject.  I 
was  afraid  he'd  be  telling  me  his  troubles,  so  I  sent  him 
along  to  Winterbeck  for  a  little  try-out  on  the  city  staff. 
But  I'm  afraid  he's  a  genius,  in  which  case  we  certainly 
shan't  be  able  to  use  him.  Winterbeck  told  him  to  come  in 
to-morrow.  But  he's  as  doubtful  as  I.  If  Guard  hadn't 
unloaded  him  on  me.  .  .  ." 

The  door  burst  open  just  then,  and  the  man  himself  came 
running  in,  carrying  a  battered  old  traveling  bag. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Listerly!"  he  cried,  somewhat  out  of  breath, 
"they  said  you  might  be  up  here.  I  just  wanted  to  say  that 
I  can't  report  to  Mr.  Winterbeck  to-morrow.  I  thought 
you'd  want  to  know.  A  very  important  personal  matter  has 
come  up — a  telegram — and  I've  got  to  go  to  Chicago  right 
away.  There's  a  train  at  eight-something  this  morning. 
But  I  expect  to  be  back  in  a  few  days,  and  I'll  report  to  him 
then — the  first  thing." 

It  came  out  in  a  tumble  of  words.  Mr.  Hitt  stared  at 
him ;  fascinated,  in  a  way.  Qearly  it  hadn't  struck  the  man 
as  odd  that  he  should  run  the  chief  into  a  corner  and  shout 
at  him.  And  he  had  no  thought  of  asking  leave  to  go;  what 
thought  he  had  seemed  to  amount  to  a  confused  notion  that 


63 

he  might  be  saving  Mr.  Listerly  some  inconvenience  by  tell- 
ing him. 

And  then  he  stood  mopping  his  face  with  a  handkerchief 
and  feeling  for  his  watch.' 

Mr.  Hitt's  gaze  wandered  back  to  the  easy,  comfortable 
figure  of  his  chief,  sprawled  across  the  desk.  Mr.  Listerly 
was  a  patient  man.  He  exhibited  no  annoyance  now ;  merely 
smoked. 

Mr.  Hitt  looked  again  at  the  man  who  called  himself 
Hugh  Stafford.  It  was  the  first  opportunity  he  had  found 
to  study  that  face.  He  saw  evidences  of  past  suffering 
there,  as  of  present  excitement.  It  seemed  to  him  an  un- 
worldly face,  if  not  altogether  poetic.  The  eyes  were  that, 
to  be  sure.  He  felt  that  those  eyes  might  haunt  him  for  a 
time.  And  he  had  never  seen  so  sensitive  a  mouth  in  a 
grown  man.  .  .  .  The  speaking  voice  had  touched  him ; 
it  was  musical,  not  too  high,  with  natural  timbre.  The  sort 
of  man,  Mr.  Hitt  reflected,  that  might  be  pursued  a  good 
deal  by  emotional  women;  vrith  his  eyes  and  mouth,  and 
that  voice. 

And  the  look  of  youth  about  him  was  bewildering.  The 
high  days  of  his  rocket  fame  seemed  so  long  ago. 

The  rather  fantastic  reflection  claimed  Mr.  Hitt's  thoughts 
now  that  if  one  could  have  known  Balzac  when  he  was  so 
desperately  hiding  from  his  creditors,  or  the  outcast  and 
outrageous  Wagner  during  his  exile  in  Paris  and  Zurich, 
or  poor  Burns,  or  even  Milton  in  prison — the  list  extended 
itself  surprisingly  over  the  history  of  creative  literature,  far 
off  to  the  poverty-stricken,  epileptic  Dostoyevsky  and  far 
back  to  the  rogue,  Villon — it  would  have  been  difficult,  see- 
ing him  in  the  flesh,  to  picture  any  one  of  these  unfortu- 
nates as  a  living  genius  with  a  future  of  achievement  and  a 
final  resounding  fame. 

Hitt  shook  his  head  over  it. 

After  he  had  stood  there  a  while,  the  man  asked : 

"Is— is  it  all  right,  Mr.  Listerly?" 

This  was  the  meek  side. 

The  chief  inclined  his  head,  and  Calverly,  after  hesitating 


64  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

a  moment,  glancing  rather  nervously  from  one  to  the  other, 
looking  as  if  about  to  launch  forth  on  a  torrent  of  words, 
rushed  out. 

Mr.  Listerly's  only  comment  was,  dryly: 

"He  neglected  to  explain  whether  his  pay  is  to  go  on  in 
his  absence." 

Abel  H.  Timothy  was  in  the  elevator  when  they  went 
down,  the  usual  unlighted  cigar  projecting  from  a  corner 
of  his  wide  mouth,  his  wide-brimmed  felt  hat  tipped  back  on 
his  large  head.  Abel  grinned  genially  at  the  librarian,  and 
winked.  As  they  passed  out,  he  said : 

"You  missed  it.  Fine  little  row  on  the  eighth.  Archie 
called  this  fellow  Stanford,  down  hard.  The  fellow  that 
is  in  Miss  Daw's  room.  He's  a  nut.  Archie  was  wild.  Tore 
his  hair." 

Calverly  went  on  down  to  the  Union  Station  and  sat  in  a 
corner  of  the  men's  waiting-room.  He  had  spent  the  even- 
ing with  Mary  Maloney,  down  by  the  river.  She  had 
seemed,  after  the  disheartening  experience  of  the  day,  the 
only  bit  of  reality  left  in  life.  In  the  shadows  of  the  front 
porch  he  had  kissed  her.  They  thought  it  best  after  that 
not  to  risk  being  seen  going  up-stairs  together. 

He  found  the  telegram  under  his  door.  He  read  it 
again  now. 

"Find  urgent  letter  here  you  better  go  to  Chicago  only  way 
avoid  unpleasant  publicity  telegraph  H.  C.  Parker  six  hun- 
dred two  Sangamon  Building  good  luck. 

"H.  W." 

He  sat  limply — trying,  trying  to  think.  First  the  trouble 
at  the  office,  then  the  kiss,  then  this  message,  each  was  a 
blow.  "I'm  a  shuttle-cock,"  he  thought.  "There's  just  sim- 
ply no  use  trying.  What  can  I  do?  Nobody  cares  what 
becomes  of  me.  Except  a  crazy  old  woman  in  Illinois.  And 
—oh,  Hump,  of  course." 

There  was  some  one  else;  a  girl  in  a  dingy  boarding- 
house,  out  Peck  Avenue  way.  But  he  couldn't  formulate 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  65 

any  thoughts  of  her.  He  was  confused  about  her.  It 
seemed  almost  as  if  she  were  still  with  him,  close  by  his  side. 
Perhaps  she  was  lying  awake,  now,  wondering  why  he  had 
rushed  out  so  abruptly  (she  must  have  heard  him  go;  he 
knew  that  she  hadn't  even  shut  her  door  tight) — listening 
for  the  sound  of  his  returning  step  on  the  stairs.  His  im- 
agination took  hold  of  that  thought. 

But  in  a  queerly  detached  corner  of  his  mind  he  was 
coldly  honest.  He  had  felt,  while  sitting  alone  on  the  steps, 
that  he  ought  to  walk  the  streets  all  night  rather  than  fol- 
low her  up  those  stairs.  There  had  been  a  momentary  touch 
of  the  old  bitter  exaltation  in  this  thought.  He  couldn't 
hold  it;  he  had  gone  up.  The  telegram  was,  in  a  savage 
way,  pure  luck.  It  had  struck  him  like  cold  water  in  the 
face.  And  now  that  he  had  somehow  actually  got  himself 
down  here  to  the  station,  he  wouldn't  go  back.  Not  now. 

So  he  slept  there,  on  the  bench ;  fitfully,  with  a  rush  of 
dreams.  Among  these  were  the  nightmares  that  had  dwelt 
with  him  for  a  year  and  more  after  his  release  from  prison. 
They  hadn't  come  so  often  of  late  years.  In  all  of  them 
Madame  Watt  figured,  a  big  imposing  woman  with  beetling 
black  eyes  and  a  hawk-like  nose. 


CHAPTER  NINE 
An  Interlude  in  Bedlam 

THE  Chicago  lawyer  was  thin,  dark,  quick,  over-eager 
in  his  questions. 

They  took  a  mid-morning  train  out  of  the  old  red-brick 
Chicago  station.  The  suburban  countryside,  like  the  smoky 
city,  was  a  haunt  to  Henry.  Scenes  from  his  boyhood  and 
young  manhood  raced  across  the  screen  of  his  inner  vision. 
He  saw,  as  the  train  slowed  for  the  stop  at  Sunbury  station, 
the  spire  of  the  old  First  Presbyterian  church,  where  he  and 
Cicely  were  married.  In  the  space  of  a  few  vividly  painful 
moments  he  lived  again  through  the  ceremony,  as  he  had, 
earlier,  break  fasting  forlornly  in  a  railway  restaurant  in 
the  city,  lived  again  through  the  trial  and  his  imprisonment 
and  the  day  of  his  release.  How  the  reporters  had  trailed 
him  that  day — eager  to  heap  again  on  him  the  notoriety  of 
six  months  earlier!  ...  It  was  a  nightmare.  He  was 
being  dragged  through  it.  He  brushed  a  limp  hand  across 
his  eyes. 

As  they  drew  near  their  destination  Parker  grew  nervous. 
He  whistled  the  refrain  of  a  music-hall  song,  and  tapped 
out  the  rhythm  on  the  handle  of  the  seat. 

Henry  dug  his  knuckles  into  his  cheek,  leaned  on  the 
window-sill,  and  stared  at  the  fresh  green  foliage  and  the 
clusters  of  houses  that  at  short  intervals  came  together  in 
villages.  He  thought  the  buildings  smaller  than  in  the  old 
days.  And  it  was  a  long  time  since  he  had  seen  so  much 

white  Milwaukee  brick He  wished  the  lawyer 

would  keep  still. 

Parker  said: 

"Madame  may  or  may  not  be  up  and  around.  You  never 
can  tell  how  you'll  find  her.  She's  had  a  sort  of  stroke, 
you  know.  Don't  excite  her  if  you  can  help  it,  and  don't 

66 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  67 

get  excited  yourself.  I'll  admit  it's  a  relief  to  have  you 
here.  My  position  as  her  attorney  isn't  altogether  enviable." 

The  train  stopped. 

The  station  was  a  mere  three-sided  shelter. 

They  walked  around  it,  and  came  upon  a  costly  limousine, 
upholstered  in  plum  color. 

They  stepped  in.  The  car  rolled  away  eastward  over  a 
rough  country  road. 

Henry  considered  suddenly  opening  the  door  and  leaping 
from  the  car.  He  could  do  it.  Parker  couldn't  stop  him. 
He  had  come  voluntarily. 

Though  if  she  was  scouring  the  country  for  him  with  de- 
tectives. .  .  .  He  shivered.  Why  couldn't  she  leave 
him  alone! 

Snatches  of  Humphrey's  earnest  talk  rose  in  his  mind. 

One  bit  in  particular : 

".  .  .  It's  a  tangle  for  all  of  us.  But  we're  all  in  it, 
keeping  our  heads  up  the  best  we  can." 

That  was  it!  Somehow  you  went  on  keeping  your 
head  up. 

It  was  strange  the  way  old  Hump  had  suddenly  struck 
his  gait.  Everything  was  rolling  his  way  now.  He  had 
suffered,  too.  Yes,  Hump  had  been  through  it.  A  success- 
ful inventor !  Success !  It  came  that  way,  apparently — like 
a  stroke  of  happy  lightning.  In  the  old  country  newspaper 
days  he  had  always  had  his  "shop" ;  all  sorts  of  interesting 
machines,  and  gas  engines,  and  belts  overhead  run  from  a 
water  motor.  And  Hump  had  done  all  the  electric  wiring 
with  his  own  hands,  and  had  installed  the  plumbing. 

They  were  riding  through  one  of  the  oak  groves  that  are 
found  along  the  clay  bluffs  on  the  western  shore  of  Lake 
Michigan.  Henry  looked  down  at  the  beach,  fifty  to  eighty 
feet  below,  and  gazed  moodily  out  over  the  lake  that  was 
ruffling  and  roaring  under  the  lash  of  a  fresh  breeze. 

They  passed  through  a  gateway  with  stone  posts  and 
wound  in  among  the  trees.  At  intervals  Henry  caught 
glimpses  of  a  strange  appearing  structure ;  apparently  a 
castle,  or  like  a  castle.  A  moment  more  and  it  stood  re- 


68  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

vealed ;  a  huge  pile  of  rough  gray  stone,  with  round  towers 
at  the  corners  and  on  either  side  the  center  doorway  that 
were  crowned  with  battlements  and  machicolations.  Ex- 
cepting in  the  corner  tower  nearer  the  lake,  the  windows 
were  mere  slits  in  the  stone ;  those  at  the  corner  were  rectan- 
gular with  small  glass  panes. 

Evidently  a  great  deal  of  time  and  labor  had  been  spent 
in  grading  and  planting  the  two  or  three  acres  of  cleared 
land  about  the  building,  but  it  had  been  allowed  to  run  to 
weeds.  A  shallow  moat,  perhaps  twenty  feet  in  width,  had 
been  dug  close  to  the  castle  and,  apparently,  sodded  and 
planted  with  shrubbery;  but  it  was  not  adequately  drained, 
or  the  outlet  was  choked,  for  considerable  pools  of  water 
stood  in  it. 

From  the  front  entrance  a  drawbridge  lay  across  the 
moat,  partly  supported  by  great  rusty  chains  that  sagged 
down  from  the  twin  central  towers. 

Parker  was  making  talk  now.     Henry  barely  heard  him. 

They  stepped  down  at  the  bridge  and  walked  across.  A 
sullen  maid  led  them  along  a  corridor  and  into  a  drawing- 
room.  It  was  the  corner  room,  with  the  rectangular  win- 
dows. Henry  suppressed  a  shiver,  wondering  what  the 
other  rooms  might  supply  in  the  way  of  cheer  with  their 
slits  of  windows. 

They  sat  very  still,  hats  on  knees,  looking  at  the  furniture 
and  the  pictures. 

An  odd  faint  sound  came  to  Henry's  ears ;  a  sound  as  of 
many  shuffling  feet. 

Parker  got  up  and  moved  to  a  window,  saying : 

"See  here!" 

Henry  sprang  with  nervous  alertness  to  his  side. 

Swinging  around  the  rear  corner  of  the  building  came  a 
queer  company — men,  women,  boys  and  girls  in  their  teens 
— in  columns  of  fours,  marching  raggedly,  each  with  a  stick 
at  the  right  shoulder,  each  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  remark- 
able figure  at  their  head. 

This  was   Madame  Watt,  tall,  nearly  erect,  limping  a 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  69 

little,  wearing  a  French  officer's  chapeau  of  some  earlier 
period,  and  carrying  a  sword,  stiffly,  at  the  shoulder. 

It  was  his  first  sight  of  her  since  they  led  him,  the  last 
time,  from  the  court  room. 

The  sullen  maid  appeared  out  there,  spoke  to  her. 

Madame  turned,  raised  her  sword,  shouted  an  order.  The 
ragtag  company  came  to  a  halt  and  broke  ranks.  Another 
moment  and  Madame  came  into  the  room,  still  wearing  the 
chapeau,  carrying  the  sword  lightly  in  her  left  hand,  limp- 
ing, very  thin,  the  hooked  nose  more  prominent  than  ever 
and  the  black  eyes  burning  out  of  an  emaciated  gray  face. 

Henry  turned  white,  stiffened,  stood  motionless,  then 
heard  himself  mumbling,  "Oh,  how  do  you  do!" 

Madame  extended  her  left  hand.  He  took  it ;  then,  with 
a  slight  effort,  withdrew  his. 

"I  knew  you'd  come,"  she  was  saying.  "They  lie  to  me. 
Everybody  lies  to  me.  But  I  knew  you'd  come.  The  num- 
bers told  me  that.  You  see  it  was  just  a  matter  of  concen- 
trating. I  knew  that  all  along.  Then,  with  the  numbers 
right,  you  would  come.  It's  an  orderly  world,  after  all." 

Henry  felt  that  he  was  staring  at  the  grotesque  creature, 
and  averted  his  eyes.  Within,  he  was  quivering  with  un- 
controllable emotion.  He  thought — "I  must  keep  steady — 
steady." 

The  attorney  wandered  unnoticed  from  the  room. 

Henry  felt  those  burning  black  eyes  upon  him.  She 
moved  toward  him,  and  he  shrank  back.  "She  mustn't  touch 
me  again,"  ran  his  thoughts.  "She  mustn't!  I  can't  bear 
it!"  But  then,  in  sheer  fear  of  being  a  coward  he  stood 
still. 

She  came  very  close,  lifted  a  gaunt  hand,  took  a  lapel  of 
his  coat  between  thumb  and  forefinger  and  slowly  rubbed 
the  cloth. 

"Henry,"  she  said,  "you  oughtn't  to  wear  these  ready- 
made  things." 

He  was  silent. 

"It  isn't  right,  you  know.     It  isn't  fair  to  me.     Henry, 


70  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

sit  down  here !"  She  drew  him  to  a  sofa.  "I  couldn't  tell 
you  this  with  that  man  in  the  room.  But  there  was  a  con- 
spiracy to  rob  me.  The  lawyers.  You  can't  trust  lawyers. 
They  worm  their  way  into  your  confidence.  I  had  to  get 
rid  of  the  lot.  I  employed  this  man  because  he  doesn't 
know  too  much  about  me.  Oh,  he  knows  a  little,  of  course 
— about  my  trouble — he'd  know  that — but  he  doesn't  know 
how  much  money  I've  got.  Nobody  on  earth  knows  that 
but  myself.  And  you — I'm  going  to  tell  you." 

Henry  sprang  up.    She  caught  his  sleeve. 

"Sit  down,"  she  cried  eagerly.  "Sit  down,  Henry!  I'm 
a  poor  old  woman.  I  must  talk  to  somebody,  or  I'll  go  mad. 
It's  frightful,  Henry — this  solitude  of  mind — this  being 
alone  against  the  world.  Of  course,  I  have  no  right  to  com- 
plain, after  the — after  the  mistake  I  made.  It's  undoubt- 
edly part  of  my  punishment.  .  .  .  Now,  Henry,  listen 
to  me !  I'm  an  old  woman.  I'm  not  strong.  There's  only 
one  thing  they  haven't  robbed  me  of,  and  that's  money. 
Now,  Henry,  there's  where  you  must  help  me.  We've  got 
to  straighten  this  thing  out,  you  and  I.  You're  a  gifted  boy. 
But  life  has  gone  hard  with  you." 

She  was  chattering  like  a  parrot.  In  the  cold  corner  of 
his  mind  Henry  knew  that  she  had  frequently  rehearsed  this 
scene,  perhaps  for  years.  And  now  she  was  saying  it  all 
at  once. 

"You've  suffered,  Henry.  You've  suffered  terribly.  So 
have  I.  Well,  we  must  draw  together.  For  one  thing — it's 
hardly  enough  to  speak  of,  between  us,  it's  a  trivial  point — 
you  must  have  money.  It's  only  fair.  It  would  have  been 
Cicely's." 

Her  voice  seemed  to  Henry  to  be  receding  into  the  dis- 
tance; small  and  thin  it  sounded.  He  sat  motionless,  his 
hands  limp  across  his  thighs,  eyes  downcast,  mouth  droop- 
ing. The  thought  flitted  across  his  nearly  stunned  brain 
that  this  was  the  sort  of  incredibly  painful  experience  that 
one  can  only  sit  through,  yielding  as  a  tree  yields  to  a  tem- 
pest, and  waiting,  living  somehow  through  it.  He  thought, 
too,  wincing,  but  curiously  clearly,  that  he  had  actually  been 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  71 

able  to  sit  here  and  let  this  woman  speak  the  name  of  his 
dead  wife.  An  hour  earlier  it  would  not  have  seemed 
within  the  range  of  possibility. 

She  got  up  now,  looked  out  into  the  corridor,  went  to  the 
window  and  leaned  out,  looking. 

"Mr.  Parker!"  she  screamed,  so  suddenly  and  stridently 
that  Henry  sprang  up  and  stood,  all  aquiver,  his  hands 
clenched  at  his  sides. 

"Just  calling  that  man,"  she  remarked,  with  self-conscious, 
rather  strained  amiability,  turning  back  into  the  room. 
"Hell  be  here  in  a  minute.  Sit  down,  Henry."  She  pointed 
to  the  sofa  with  her  sword.  "Everything's  all  right.  Sit 
down.  I've  so  much  to  tell  you  and  show  you.  You  saw 
my  refugees  out  there  ?  Don't  they  drill  well  ?  It  takes  pa- 
tience, but  I've  accomplished  a  lot  already.  They're  an  in- 
teresting lot,  left  destitute  when  the  religious  colony  failed, 
up  near  the  State  Line.  They're  lace  makers  from  Holland 
and  Belgium.  Only  a  few  of  them  speak  English." 

As  she  talked  she  drew  herself  up,  sword  against  shoulder. 

"I  drill  them  for  discipline.  That's  very  important,  Henry 
— discipline.  For  ourselves,  and  others."  .  .  .  She 
glanced  down  at  the  sword,  held  it  out.  "But  perhaps  this 
thing  alarms  you,  Henry.  .  .  .  You  might  think  I'd — 
Oh,  you'd  have  a  right  to  think  it!  I've  been  a  violent 
woman.  An  ungoverned,  passionate  woman.  You  have  a 
right  to  think  anything  of  me.  It's  nothing  but  an  heirloom, 
at  that.  It  belonged  to  my  husband's  grandfather,  the  fifth 
Count  de  la  Plaine.  My — my  first  husband,  that  was.  Here, 
Henry,  you  take  it.  That  will  show" — her  voice  was  rising 
shrilly ;  there  were  hot  points  of  light  in  her  eyes. 

She  broke  off  with : 

"Here's  that  man !  Come  in,  Mr.  Parker!  Did  you  bring 
the  will?" 

The  lawyer  bowed. 

"Then  read  it.    Read  it  to  my  son-in-law." 

Parker  drew  an  envelope  from  an  inner  pocket. 

Henry  moved  away.  "Xo,"  he  said  unsteadily — "no,  no! 
I  don't  want — I  won't  hear  ii !" 


72  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

Madame  caught  his  sleeve,  first  with  one  hand,  then  with 
both.  The  sword  clanged  to  the  ground  between  them. 

Henry  jerked  away. 

Madame  staggered  weakly.  The  lawyer  caught  her  arm 
and  steadied  her. 

"Read  it!"  she  was  crying.    "Read  it  to  him!" 

"Really,  Countess,"  murmured  the  lawyer,  "if  he — " 

"Read  it!  He  must  hear  it!  It's  my  life  now,  that  will! 
Oh,  Henry,  you  won't  hold  against  me  the — " 

Now  Henry  turned  on  her,  a  blaze  at  last  in  the  gray-blue 
eyes  that  for  the  moment  rivaled,  met,  conquered  the  light 
in  her  black  ones. 

"No!"  he  cried.  "I  will  not  hear  it.  I'm  not  interested! 
You've  wrecked  every  life  you've  touched.  You  are  an  evil 
thing.  You  killed  your  husband.  And  you  killed  the  only 
woman  I  have  ever  loved.  You  destroyed  my  life.  All  I 
ask  of  you  now  is  to  leave  me  alone.  Understand?  I  want 
to  be  left  alone !  You've  hounded  me  with  detectives — " 

"Oh,  but  Henry,  that  was  the  only  way  I  could — " 

"There  is  no  way  you  can  see  me  again.  I  won't  have  it ! 
I  won't  have  you  hounding  me !  Do  you  understand  that  ? 
It's  got  to  stop!  I  don't  want  you,  or  your  filthy  money! 
You  dare  talk  to  me  of  suffering!  What  do  you  know  of 
suffering?  You  killed  a  man,  and  went  free.  But  Cicely 
didn't  go  free.  Even  I — I  didn't  go  free.  They  sent  me  to 
prison.  What  do  you  know  about  prisons — what  they  do 
to  a  man !" 

His  face  was  hotly  red  now.  He  beat  a  clenched  fist 
against  his  chest.  "You've  destroyed  my  life.  There's  next 
to  nothing  left.  The  heart  is  gone.  I'm  a  burnt-out  husk. 
And  still  you  follow  me,  send  dirty  detectives  after  me,  try 
to  fasten  your  ugly  life  on  mine.  You  won't  even  let  me 
try  to  make  a  poor  little  beginning  in  the  world.  I'm  tell- 
ing you  I  won't  stand  it !  I'm  warning  you — I  don't  know 
what  I  might  do !  You're  to  leave  me  alone !" 

He  rushed  out  of  the  room,  along  the  corridor,  out  over 
the  absurd  drawbridge;  and  took  the  road  along  the  bluff, 
walking  very  rapidly,  breathing  hard  and  muttering. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  73 

He  was  half-way  to  the  little  flag  station  when  an  auto- 
mobile passed  him  and  stopped  just  ahead. 

Parker  opened  the  door. 

"Better  get  in,"  he  said.    "I  fetched  your  coat  and  hat." 

Henry  stood  off,  trying  to  think.  Already  his  passion 
was  spent.  The  dull  gray  of  his  life  was  again  in  view 
ahead;  the  sort  of  thing  one  went  miserably  but  quietly  on 
with.  He  would  of  course  go  on  with  it,  like  all  the  rest 
somehow.  He  was  going  back  to  begin  life  once  more — 
So  many,  many  times  he  had  begun  it ! — this  time  as  a  com- 
mon reporter.  He  was  lucky  even  to  have  that  chance. 
.  .  .  .  He  got  into  the  car,  and  put  on  his  hat.  It  was, 
after  all,  the  sensible  thing ;  it  was  what  one  did. 

Parker  left  him  alone  on  the  train ;  went  up  to  the  smok- 
ing car.  And  they  walked  in  something  near  silence  across 
the  city. 

They  stood  on  a  busy  corner.  "I  go  up  here,"  said  the 
lawyer.  "There's  just  this  I've  got  to  ask.  Suppose  it 
should  be  necessary  for  me  to  get  in  touch  with  you.  There's 
nobody  else.  What  am  I  to  do?" 

Calverly  studied  the  pavement  He  was  beyond  thought 
now — weak,  spiritually  empty.  He  had  caught  a  cold,  at 
some  stage  of  his  journey,  and  now  couldn't  muster  up  a 
desire  to  fight  it.  He  had  touched  bottom.  So,  not  caring, 
he  gave  the  man  his  false  name  and  the  boarding-house 
address. 

It  seemed  hardly  to  matter.  At  the  moment  he  wasn't 
even  sure  he  would  go  back.  This  notion  grew  as  he  walked 
the  streets  or  sat  in  cheap  little  motion-picture  houses.  He 
couldn't  feel  that  he  had  any  roots  at  all.  He  considered 
starting  farther  west,  traveling  as  far  as  his  money  would 
take  him,  then  working  his  way.  He  thought  of  California, 
Honolulu,  Australia  or  Japan.  Why  not?  It  has  been  done 
often  enough,  and  by  all  sorts  of  penniless  men. 

He  slept  in  a  cheap  hotel.  Overnight  the  personal  sense 
of  direction  that  had  lately  been  growing  in  him  returned. 
He  had  started  a  fight  with  life.  He  didn't  want  to  quit.  It 
appeared  to  him  now  as  unreal — the  city  he  had  chosen,  his 


74  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

work  that  had  begun  so  badly,  his  life,  the  people  he  had 
met.  The  people,  in  particular.  .  .  .  The  one  called 
Margie  Daw,  now ;  an  unusual,  distinctly  interesting  per- 
sonality. Out  here  in  Chicago  it  was  difficult  to  believe  that 
he  had  been  afraid  of  her.  For  he  had  been.  And  Mary 
Maloney — she  was  now  the  most  unreal  of  all.  He  tried 
to  visualize  her,  and  failed.  He  remembered  that  she  was 
small,  with  unusual  eyes  that  were  shaded  by  long  lashes. 
.  .  .  And  Trent,  Mr.  Listerly,  and  the  quiet  old  librarian 
up  under  the  roof ;  they  were  like  creatures  out  of  a  dim 
past,  faint,  half-forgotten. 

It  was  after  six  the  next  evening  when  he  dropped  off  a 
street-car  and  entered  the  dingy,  strange  little  street  that  he 
unquestionably  lived  in  now.  The  boarding-house,  with  its 
scaling  paint  outside  and  its  worn  stair  carpet  and  smell  of 
onions  inside,  he  knew  for  his.  Some  girls  descending  from 
the  third  floor  to  the  second,  called  him  "Mr.  Stafford." 
Yes,  surely  he  knew  them.  He  had  sung  with  them.  And 
the  name  seemed  to  belong  to  him. 

The  second  door  beyond  his  stood  ajar.  His  pulse  quick- 
ened. He  entered  the  plain  little  room  that  was  his  and 
dropped  his  bag  on  a  chair. 

An  envelope  lay  on  the  bureau.  It  was  addressed  to  "Mr. 
Hugh  Stafford."  The  return  card  bore  the  name,  "Ackers, 
Hutt  and  Parker,  Attorneys  at  Law,  Sangamon  Building, 
Chicago."  It  was  that  fellow  Parker.  What  could  he  be 
writing  for!  So  soon,  too;  must  have  posted  it  that  same 
day. 

He  heard  a  light  step  in  the  hall,  and  looked  up,  his  nerves 
tightening. 

His  door  swung  slowly  open.  Mary  Maloney  appeared, 
blushing,  smiling  a  little ;  slipped  in,  moved  the  door  nearly 
to  behind  her;  then,  evidently  confused,  closed  it. 

"Perhaps  it's  better  to  shut  it,"  he  heard  her  saying. 


CHAPTER  TEN 
Of  a  Woman's  Heart  and  the  Web  of  Life 

THEY  stood  in  a  silence  which  she  finally  broke  with  a 
nervous  little  laugh. 

"Where  on  earth  have  you  been?"  she  asked. 

"I  had  to  go  to  Chicago.    Unexpectedly." 

"Oh!  .  .  .  Well,  I  just  wondered,  I — I  suppose  it's 
time  to  go  down  to  supper.  I  just  thought  I'd — " 

He  was  gazing  at  her,  his  brows  knit,  trying  to  recall  just 
what  had  passed  between  them,  trying  to  make  it  come  real. 
It  seemed  as  if  he  ought  to  be  making  it  easy  for  her.  He 
was  sorry  for  her.  She  looked  very  pretty,  her  color  up 
that  way,  her  eyes  downcast,  showing  the  long  lashes. 

She  was  moving  back  toward  the  door. 

With  a  confused  idea  of  gaining  time  until  he  could  get 
his  mind  clear,  think  up  some  way  to  be  nice  to  her — cer- 
tainly he  couldn't  let  her  go  like  this — he  said : 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  open  this?  Just  a  moment!  I've  been 
through  a  painful  experience." 

He  tore  off  the  end  of  the  envelope  and  drew  out  a  letter. 
He  could  only  half  read  it.  There  were  enclosures.  A 
receipt  for  him  to  sign.  And  something  about — oh,  yes! 
"Madame  is  prostrated ;  but  she  got  to  the  telephone  in  per- 
son just  now  and  instructed  me  to  send  it  to  you.  I  am 
therefore  merely  carrying  out  her  expressed  wish.  If  you 
will  permit  me  to  advise  you,  I  think  you  had  better  not 
send  it  back.  The  effect  on  Madame  might  be  most  unfor- 
tunate. It  would  even  be  better,  if  you  feel,  on  reflection, 
that  you  can  not  accept  it  for  yourself,  to  give  it  to  some 
deserving  charity.  You  will  see  that  the  check  is  made  out 
in  the  name  you  gave  me.  If  you  can  get  some  one  who 
knows  you  there  to  identify  you,  no  questions  are  likely 
to  .  .  ." 

75 


76  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

He  tore  up  the  letter.  He  drew  out  the  receipt  and  tore 
that  up,  dropping  the  bits  of  paper  on  the  floor. 

"Oh,"  cried  Mary  softly,  "you  shouldn't  do  that!"  She 
dropped  on  her  knees  and  picked  them  up. 

He  found  the  other  enclosure  now.  It  was  a  cashier's 
check,  from  the  biggest  national  bank  in  Chicago.  It  brought 
up  a  picture  of  huge,  shiny  marble  columns,  long  glass  and 
mahogany  partitions,  prosperous-looking  men  with  keen 
eyes  and  close  mouths  sitting  at  mahogany  desks,  wide  areas 
of  mosaic  flooring. 

Mary  was  standing  close  to  him  now.  She  shouldn't  have 
come  in  like  that.  But  here  she  was;  and  standing  there, 
still,  all  feeling,  she  was  setting  up  a  warm  counter-current 
to  the  black  mood  that  had  been  on  him.  He  wished  weakly 
that  she  would  go.  Then,  flushing,  weak  at  heart,  his  mouth 
set  as  with  pain,  he  took  her  in  his  arms.  And  thus  they 
stood  for  a  little  time,  without  a  sound. 

The  thought  filled  his  mind  that  this  girl — really,  person- 
ally, so  little  in  his  life — was  but  a  revivified  memory  of 
Cicely.  For  the  moment  he  could  almost  tell  himself  that  it 
was  Cicely. 

Then  his  mind  cleared.  He  realized  that  he  was  holding 
her  tightly,  and  that  she  had  let  her  face  droop  against  his 
coat.  She  seemed  to  be  whispering  something,  over  and 
over.  He  bent  his  head  to  hear.  It  was : 

"Don't  kiss  me !" 

He  went  cold.  The  picture  suddenly  came  clear — the 
bare  room,  this  little  girl  so  full  of  pent-up  emotion  that 
must  not  be  squandered  on  the  wrong  man ;  himself,  beaten 
down  by  the  pitiless  bludgeonings  of  chance  to  the  point  of 
accepting,  out  of  his  sheer  bitter  need,  what  he  couldn't 
hope  to  return.  His  arms  relaxed  a  little ;  but  he  stopped 
that.  It  would  hurt  her.  He  mustn't  hurt  her.  Not  while 
she  was  giving  him  her  trust. 

Another  thought  came ;  the  sort  of  worldly  thought  that 
had  not  been  in  his  mind  for  years — that  he  was  freely  of- 
fered, if  not  happiness,  at  least  its  nearest  earthly  substi- 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  77 

tute.  As  her  life  stood,  she  herself  had  small  chance  of  any 
higher  happiness.  Even  marriage,  the  sort  she  could  get, 
offered  her  little  more  than  a  form  of  slavery.  He  knew 
that  what  she  was  tacitly,  almost  innocently,  offering  him 
could  never,  precisely,  be  given  to  another.  The  moralistic 
view,  he  reflected,  was  not  necessarily  sound.  It  was  within 
the  range  of  possibility,  admitting  all  the  risk,  that  she  might 
be  little  the  worse  for  him  or  he  for  her.  Such  affairs  hap- 
pened everywhere,  all  the  time,  and  only  came  to  light  when 
they  went  in  some  way  wrong.  Celibacy  was  by  no  means, 
despite  a  wide  racial  pretension,  the  invariable  custom 
among  lonely  people  in  cities.  Or  elsewhere,  for  that 
matter. 

His  arms  tightened  again.  For  a  moment  the  hunger  of 
the  years  overpowered  him.  He  kissed  her. 

Then,  as  abruptly,  he  pushed  her  away. 

"You  mustn't  stay,"  he  said  roughly.    "Please  go !" 

"I  know,"  she  murmured,  and  lingered. 

He  drew  her  toward  the  door. 

"You  dropped  this,"  she  said,  and  picked  up  the  check. 
"You  mustn't  be  careless  about  things  like  that,  Hugh." 

"Wait,"  he  whispered,  "I'll  see  if  any  one's  in  the  hall." 

Their  eyes  met.    And  now  he  had  her  again  in  his  arms. 

"Quick — go !"  he  muttered.  "This  won't  do.  It  won't 
do,  Mary!  I  can't  stay  here.  I'll  pack  up  now  and  go." 
He  gave  a  bitter  little  laugh.  "Precious  little  to  pack  up! 
But  we  can't  go  on  living  here  like  this." 

"I've  been  thinking,  too,  Hugh."  He  winced  at  the  false 
name.  It  was  on  his  tongue  to  tell  her  that  it  was  a  lie, 
that  he  himself  was  a  lie.  She  went  on,  "I've  thought 
maybe  I'd  go." 

"No,"  said  he,  "I  will.    And  you  mustn't  stay  here  now." 

They  were  silent  again. 

"My  friend  wants  me  to  get  married,"  she  said,  very 
softly. 

"Do  it,  Mary!  That's  honest.  Make  a  job  of  it.  You'll 
be  happier." 


78  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

She  didn't  answer  this. 

He  carefully  opened  the  door  and  peeped  into  the  haJl; 
then  moved  her  part  way  out. 

But  she  slipped  back. 

"We're  forgetting  this,"  she  said,  handing  him  the  check. 

"I  don't  want  it.  Keep  it,  Mary.  Use  it  to  start  on. 
Things  for  your  home.  Wait,  I'll  endorse  it !" 

"Hugh — No,  of  course  I  couldn't — Why  Hugh !    Look !" 

She  was  staring  at  the  paper.  He  glanced  at  it,  hardly 
saw  it. 

"Twenty  thousand  dollars!"  she  breathed. 

"Careful— they'll  hear!" 

"But,  Hugh!" 

"Wait,  Mary!  Shut  the  door.  I'll  endorse  it.  I'm  so 
glad !  Money  does  help.  It's  one  thing  I  can  give  you." 

She  closed  the  door,  came  to  him,  deliberately  slipped  her 
arms  about  his  neck,  looked  full  into  his  eyes,  said  "It's  im- 
possible, Hugh.  You  know  it  is." 

"No,  really—" 

"It's  impossible.  I'm  going  down-stairs  now.  I'm  going — 
I  think — yes,  I'm  going  to  tell  my  friend  that  I'll  marry  him. 
You  can't  give  me  any  money.  But  you're  the  most  won- 
derful man  in  the  world." 

The  tears  were  running  unheeded  down  her  face.  She 
drew  herself  up  and  kissed  him,  frankly,  sweetly.  And  he 
knew  that  he  was  being  permitted  to  look  straight  into  a 
woman's  heart. 

"Please,"  he  muttered  weakly.  "I  don't  want  you  to  catch 
this  cold." 

"I  don't  care  about  a  cold,  Hugh.  I  was  thinking,  per- 
haps you'd  better  be  the  one  to  go.  It  won't  make  the  talk 
it  would  if  I  went." 

For  a  moment  more  she  clung  to  him.  Then  she  left  the 
room,  closed  the  door  behind  her,  and  ran  lightly  down  the 
stairs. 

He  crumpled  the  check  into  a  ball,  thrust  it  into  a  pocket, 
and  forgot  it. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  79 

All  his  few  effects  went  into  two  bags.  He  hurried  out 
with  them,  caught  a  car  and  rode  down-town. 

He  was  profoundly  depressed.  He  had  won  this  particu- 
lar battle,  yet  had  lost  ground.  Because  of  it  life  had  a 
stronger  hold  on  him.  He  told  himself  that  he  would  hunt 
up  a  room  where  he  could  resume  the  old  solitude.  Board- 
ing houses  clearly  weren't  the  thing. 

But  what  he  did  was  to  go  to  the  building  Margie  Daw 
lived  in  and  take  a  tiny  apartment.  He  wondered,  all  sensi- 
tive nerves,  what  he  could  do  about  references.  But  it 
came  out  in  his  brief  talk  with  the  officiating  janitor  that 
they  weren't  much  interested  in  references.  What  they 
wanted  was  the  money,  a  month's  rent  down. 

He  paid  it,  deeply  relieved.  But  this,  following  the  trip 
to  Chicago,  took  nearly  all  of  his  small  fund  of  reserve  cash. 

The  fact  brought  up  the  idea  of  work.  That  was  the 
thing,  work !  He  went  over  to  the  News  office  and  sat  at 
one  of  the  long  reporter's  desks,  where  Mr.  Winterbeck 
could  easily  enough  see  him  if  he  chose. 

On  the  way  out  of  his  new  residence  he  had  found  him- 
self a  little  stirred  in  passing  Miss  Daw's  door.  He  even 
paused  and  read  her  name  there.  He  felt  that  he  didn't 
particularly  want  to  see  her — he  would  hardly  be  looking 
her  up — but  it  was  a  help  to  know  that  some  degree  of 
friendly  companionship  was  within  reach.  He  knew  now 
that  he  would  need  it.  Even  at  some  cost.  What  this  might 
come  to  he  couldn't  face.  Life,  it  seemed,  came  down  at 
times,  at  critical  times,  to  what  you  had  to  have  if  you 
weren't  to  quit  utterly. 

Miss  Daw  left  her  office — very  trim  and  pretty — and  went 
out  to  the  elevator.  She  didn't  see  him.  He  was  rather 
glad  she  didn't. 

For  an  hour  and  a  half  he  sat  there.  Men  were  called, 
one  by  one,  to  the  city  editor's  horseshoe  desk  and  given 
their  orders.  Snappy  orders,  for  Mr.  Winterbeck  was  a 
snappy  man. 

The  thought  came  to  Henry  that  he  must  be  sure  to  listen 


80 

when  his  turn  came,  if  it  should  come.  Mr.  Winterbeck 
clearly  wasn't  the  sort  to  be  patient  with  wandering  minds. 

What  a  grind  it  was !    What  a  drive ! 

He  wished  he  could  shake  off  his  cold.  It  seemed  to  be 
working  into  every  part  of  his  body. 

The  reporters  were  nearly  all  gone  now.  Mr.  Winterbeck, 
speaking  first  into  this  telephone  and  then  into  that — quick, 
low,  positive — jotting  down  lightning  notes,  apparently  in 
shorthand,  running  his  fingers  down  lists,  suddenly  called: 

"Stafford!" 

Henry  sat  and  looked  at  him. 

"Stafford!" 

Henry  found  himself  moving  over  to  the  horseshoe  desk. 

"Go  to  the  mayor's  house  and  interview  him  about  the 
arrangements  for  the  unveiling  of  the  Cantey  Memorial." 

And  Henry,  with  hardly  a  notion  of  how  to  go  about  it 
but  aware  that  he  mustn't  ask  questions  here,  set  forth  on 
his  first  task  as  a  reporter. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 
Of  Mayors  and  Men  from  Mars 

MR.  HITT  stood  before  the  drug  store,  looking  now  out 
at  the  street  traffic,  now  at  the  man  called  Stafford. 
They  had  just  come  down  in  the  elevator.  He  had  spoken. 
He  was  speaking  now ;  suggesting  a  bite  of  supper.  And 
Stafford — his  secret  knowledge  that  the  man  was  in  reality 
Henry  Calverly  burned  within  his  breast ;  he  could  hardly 
trust  his  tongue;  out  of  the  instinct  of  a  born  writing  and 
printing  man  he  could  see  now  before  his  inner  eye  the 
title  page  of  Calverly's  great  book,  and  other  pages,  pre- 
cisely the  type,  spacing,  margins,  and  Calverly's  odd,  indi- 
vidual way  with  words — Stafford  (he  must  think  "Stafford" 
hard,  or  he'd  surely  say  the  other)  was  remarking  some- 
thing about  interviewing  the  mayor. 

Mr.  Hitt  couldn't  leave  him  alone.    He  made  talk. 

"You  were  saying — oh,  yes,  the  mayor.  There's  a  char- 
acter! Probably  as  typical  as  any  in  America.  He  will 
interest  you.  If  you've  a  few  moments,  I'd  like  to  show 
you.  .  .  .  Only  four  or  five  blocks.  You  can  transfer 
from  there  to  the  Hill  cars." 

The  man  Stafford  seemed  hardly  to  care  where  he  went. 
He  had  a  cold,  he  said.  And  pains  in  his  back.  Mr.  Hitt 
suggested  aspirin.  They  walked  across  town,  out  of  the 
business  sections,  past  a  block  or  two  of  grimy  whole- 
sale houses,  into  a  region  of  tenements,  small  shops,  unkempt 
children  playing  on  sidewalks  and  pavement  and  innumer- 
able saloons. 

They  stood  on  a  corner.  Mr.  Hitt  pointed  up  at  a  clut- 
tered fire-escape,  two  floors  above  one  of  the  saloons. 

"Tim  Maclntyre — the  mayor,  you  know — lived  up  there. 
He  played  in  the  street,  like  these  youngsters,  he  and  his 
sister.  The  father  was  a  truckman;  drank  himself  to  death. 

81 


82  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

The  mother  died  a  little  after  him.  Tim  was  ambitious.  As 
was  his  sister.  They  were  a  bright  pair.  Tim  got  himself 
through  high  school  somehow,  and  put  his  sister  through 
a  business  college.  She  became  a  stenographer  in  the  County 
Railways  office.  Later  she  worked  for  James  H.  Cantey 
himself.  Then  she  married;  a  young  clerk  who  has  done 
very  well,  I  understand.  She  lives  on  the  Hill  now.  And 
Tim  is  mayor.  He  hasn't  kept  up.  Something  of  a  drunk- 
ard. Yet  he  is  bright.  He'll  interest  you.  The  machine  he 
has  built  utterly  controls  the  city.  ...  I  think  it  will 
interest  you,  going  directly  from  his  old  home  here  to  the 
new  one.  He  lives  on  the  Hill,  too,  now,  you  know.  And 
he's  never  done  anything  but  politics.  Oh,  he  had  a  little 
law  business — ambulance  chasing — but  he  was  poor  as  a 
crow  at  the  time  he  was  made  city  attorney.  And  even 
when  he  first  ran  for  mayor,  he  made  a  campaign  issue  of 
his  poverty.  He  was  talking  reform  then.  A  gifted  dema- 
gogue. .  .  .  You  will  see  how  he  lives  now." 

Mr.  Hitt  hailed  a  street-car.  Just  before  his  new  ac- 
quaintance swung  aboard  he  added: 

"We  are  a  naive  people,  we  Americans." 

The  young  man  seemed  hardly  to  have  heard.  He  was 
preoccupied;  gloomily  wrapped  in  self.  Mr.  Hitt,  despite 
his  old  journalist's  eye,  couldn't  know  that  he  had  snapped 
an  extraordinarily  vivid  picture  on  a  highly  sensitized  mind. 

Twenty  minutes  later  Calverly  stood  before  the  mansion 
of  the  Honorable  Timothy  J.  Maclntyre,  on  the  Hill.  There 
must  have  been  an  acre  of  sloping  lawn;  and  ground  up 
here,  as  in  the  business  district,  sold  by  the  square  and  not 
the  running  foot.  There  were  groups  of  rare  shrubs,  some 
in  their  spring  blossoming;  and  a  hedge  of  close-clipped 
privet.  The  house  was  big,  of  pressed  brick,  with  carved 
mahogany  about  the  windows  and  about  the  front  door. 
There  was  a  mahogany  bay  on  either  side  of  the  door. 
Something  not  unlike  a  rose  window,  of  stained  glass  and 
steel,  set  off  the  second  story.  The  roof  was  covered 
red  tiles.  It  was  a  house  meant  to  be  impressive,  to  domi- 
nate; about  it,  up  and  down  and  across  the  shaded  street, 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  83 

the  houses  of  mere  merchants  and  manufacturers  and  bank- 
ers shrank  modestly  back  among  the  trees  and  shrubbery, 
yielding  the  street  to  the  Honorable  Tim. 

Calverly  found  himself  waiting  in  a  huge  high  drawing- 
room.  Everything  movable  in  the  room  was  marble  or  ma- 
hogany or  gilt.  The  walls  were  paneled  in  mahogany ;  the 
ceiling  was  supported  by  thirty-foot  beams  of  it.  The  room 
to  the  rear,  beyond  the  red-and-gold  portieres,  was  paneled 
in  a  gray  satiny  wood,  like  that  used  in  the  show  windows 
at  Rumpelheim's,  probably  Circassian  walnut.  The  other 
great  room  across  the  hall  suggested  the  pictures  one  saw 
of  the  Palace  at  Versailles ;  a  "period"  room,  all  gilt  and 
brocades  and  imitation  tapestries. 

The  door  man  reappeared — he  wore  a  blue  uniform,  with 
a  striped  yellow  vest — and  led  the  caller  up-stairs.  In  a 
rear  "study"  behind  an  enormous  flat  mahogany  desk,  nerv- 
ous eyes  shifting  brightly  about  the  room,  sat  the  mayor 
himself. 

The  wavy  hair,  worn  rather  long,  was  almost  jet  black  ; 
a  thick  lock  of  it  had  slipped  down  over  the  high  white  fore- 
head, suggesting  familiar  pictures  of  Napoleon.  Indeed  the 
man  looked  a  little  like  the  great  adventurer-emperor.  His 
chin  was  drawn  in,  his  brows  knit,  as  if  to  complete  the 
picture.  And  when  he  rose  and  with  what  was  perhaps 
intended  for  courtly  gravity  motioned  Calverly  to  the  arm- 
chair by  the  desk,  despite  the  wrinkled  gray  suit  he  wore 
he  managed  to  convey  an  impression  that  he  was  trying  to 
stand  like  Napoleon. 

Calverly  declined  a  cigar,  and  sinking  back  into  the  leather 
chair  gave  rein  to  a  suddenly  quickened  curiosity.  Directly 
back  of  the  mayor's  chair,  shelf  on  shelf  of  them,  were  rows 
of  volumes  in  rich  red  and  gilt  bindings,  the  titles  all  bearing 
on  Napoleon,  his  early  life,  his  rise,  his  campaigns,  his  em- 
pire, the  Hundred  Days  and  Waterloo,  St.  Helena.  There 
was  a  set  of  commentaries  on  the  Code  Napoleon.  Another 
set  of  five  or  six  volumes  dealt  with  his  amours.  Above  the 
book-shelves  about  the  room,  were  engravings,  all  of  the 

.n,  his  battles,  his  e.\ 


84  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

Calverly's  brightening  eyes  returned  from  the  surround- 
ings to  the  man.  There  was  a  tray  on  the  table,  with  glasses, 
a  bottle  of  whisky  and  a  soda  siphon.  The  mayor's  cheeks 
were  flushed.  His  skin  was  oddly  delicate.  He  was  an 
alert  nervous  man,  despite  his  pose.  He  pushed  the  tray 
toward  his  caller;  then  poured  out  a  big  drink  for  himself. 

"I'm  killing  a  cold,"  he  announced,  in  something  the  man- 
ner of  one  who  addresses  a  public  meeting.  "See  here,  my 
friend,  you're  coughing  yoursef.  Have  a  bit.  It's  the  real 
stuff,  from  the  old  country.  I  import  it  in  the  wood." 

Calverly,  in  declining,  studied  the  man  with  quickening 
interest. 

"You're  from  the  News,"  pursued  the  mayor. 

Calverly  bowed. 

"You'll  be  a  new  man  here.  I  know  all  the  newspaper 
boys,  you  see;  and  they  know  me.  I  was  a  reporter  once 
myself.  We  get  on.  We  see  things  alike.  There's  no  such 
help  in  developing  a  city  and  making  it  known  as  clever 
newspaper  men.  And  you'll  find  you  can  do  well  here. 
There's  odd  jobs  to  be  picked  up — for  your  spare  time,  of 
course.  You'll  find  you'll  draw  close  to  big  men  in  this 
city.  We've  got  'em.  And  they'll  treat  you  right.  They'll 
help  you.  They'll  tip  you  off.  If  they  don't,  you  come 
straight  to  me.  I've  got  my  hand  on  the  pulse  of  the  town. 
For  that  matter,  of  the  state,  too.  They  daren't  ignore  me." 

He  poured  out  another  drink ;  tossed  it  down. 

"There's  a  big  man  coming  up  here  this  evening.  Harvey 
O'Rell.  Met  him  yet?  No?  You  will,  then.  Shortly.  You 
must  know  O'Rell.  He's  general  manager  of  County  Rail- 
ways. And  he  comes  to  me — as  mayor  and  as  man.  Under- 
stand? Very  able.  Great  executive.  A  power  here.  But 
he  comes  to  me.  They  all  come  to  me.  A  word  from  me 
and  he'll  give  you  anything  you  ask  for.  And  remember 
this,  Tim  Maclntyre  takes  care  of  his  friends.  Tim  never 
forgets." 

He  paused ;  mopped  his  moist  forehead ;  drank. 

Calverly,  speaking  abruptly,  with  a  touch  of  eagerness, 
said: 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  85 

"The  Cantey  Memorial  is  to  be  unveiled — " 

"Oh,  now,  there  was  a  great  man !  James  H.  Cantey. 
He  was  my  friend  and  my  benefactor.  He  owned  this  city. 
And  ruled  it  wisely,  kindly.  A  great-hearted  gentleman. 
And  he  made  the  ideal  ruler,  a  benevolent  despot.  You  can't 
govern  a  city  with  a  town  meeting.  There  must  be  author- 
ity, power  to  act.  So-called  democracy  has  broken  down. 
It  is  the  big  men  who  rule  us,  the  men  of  vision  and  power, 
the  builders  of  our  railways,  our  factories,  our  banks.  How 
could  it  be  otherwise?  Nature  is  an  unending  struggle. 
Power  gravitates  to  the  strongest  and  best.  These  are  at- 
tacked, yes  ;  but  by  whom  ?  Why,  by  the  rabble,  the  out-at- 
elbows,  the  agitator  who  seeks  personal  advancement  in  ar- 
raying poverty  against  wealth,  class  against  class!" 

Calverly  was  fascinated  now.  He  had  read,  or  glanced 
through  only  one  of  Maclntyre's  speeches ;  but  that  had  been 
the  speech  of  a  cheap  demagogue,  a  man  who  bragged  of  his 
simplicity,  his  old  clothes,  his  friendship  for  the  common 
man. 

T-he  Honorable  Tim  drank  again. 

"You'll  be  making  a  speech  at  the  unveiling,"  suggested 
Calverly. 

"Yes,  I'm  coming  to  that." 

Calverly  noted  now  that  the  desk  was  littered  with  type- 
written sheets. 

"I  was  going  to  say,  my  boy — about  that  speech — my  sec- 
retary will  send  it  to  the  papers.  But  I'm  going  to  do  more 
than  that  for  you.  Now  listen  to  me.  I  propose  to  put 
power  into  your  hands.  Power.  That's  what  I  think  of  you. 
I  see  friendship  in  your  face.  When  I  see  friendship,  I  give 
it  back  in  kind.  Now  listen !  This  is  a  tip  from  the  inner- 
most councils.  From  what  they  call  the  Big  Cinch."  He 
fell  into  a  defensive  whine.  "Well,  suppose  it  is  the  Big 
Cinch !  There  has  to  be  one,  doesn't  there  ?  All  the  serious 
vested  interests  of  a  great  city  can't  be  left  at  the  mercy 
of  any  stray  agitator,  can  they?  No.  Well,  listen  to  this! 
Buy  County  Railways.  Buy  now ;  put  in  every  cent  you  can 
scrape  up.  But  buy  this  week.  Do  just  that,  and  next  week 


86  THE  PASSK  »XATE  PILGRIM 

you'll  be  a  rich  man.  Got  any  money?  No?  Well,  then,  to 
show  that  friendship  is  no  idle  word  with  me,  I'll  carry  you 
for  ten  thousand.  Why,  certainly!  Do  it  as  easy  as  not. 
You  get  me,  don't  you  ?  County  Railways  is  cutting  a  melon 
next  week.  And  we've  got  the  stock  down.  New  York  is  in 
on  it.  I'm  in  heavy.  Within  a  week  from  to-night — within 
five  'days — this  is  confidential,  mind :  in  friendship — I'll  be 
tucking  away  something  between  fifty  and  eighty  thousand. 
Not  a  bad  little  turnover.  You  see  they  have  to  come  to  me. 
O'Rell  has  to  tell  me.  He  can't  hide  a  thing  from  me.  Do 
you  see  why  ?  Because,  if  he  tried  it,  I'd  go  over  his  head. 
The  Cantey  Estate  can't  hide  it  from  me.  My  boy" — he 
pushed  back  his  chair,  got  unsteadily  up,  clutched  at  the 
desk,  and  stood  swaying  there — "My  boy,  I've  been  suc- 
cessful. They  call  me  a  rich  man  now.  It's  right.  I'm  a 
rich  man.  I'll  tell  you  how  I've  done  it.  I've  been  smart. 
I've  had  power.  I've  used  power.  To-day  I'm  the  biggest 
man  in  this  end  of  the  state.  And  they  all  know.  Let  'em 
try  to  fool  me,  let  'em  break  faith  just  once — O'Rell,  or 
these  bankers  here,  or  the  contractors — and  I'll  get  'em  in 
a  day.  I'd  go  over  their  heads,  over  all  their  heads.  I'd 
turn  the  Cantey  Estate  loose  on  'em.  I  could  do  it.  Even 
the  Cantey  Estate  has  to  come  to  me.  That's  where  I  was 
smart,  right  at  the  beginning.  I've  got  a  toe  in  the  crick 
of  the  Cantey  door!  Get  that?  That's  where  I  was  smart, 
twelve  years  ago !  I  tell  you,  I've  got  a  toe  in  the  crack  of 
the  Cantey  door.  They're  afraid  of  me,  the  whole  bunch! 
Understand?  They're  afraid  of  me !  Of  me!  .  .  . 

"There  was  something  else — something  I  wanted  to  say 
— oh,  yes !  Now  about  this  speech." 

He  fumbled  about  the  desk ;  gathered  up  the  sheets ; 
turned ;  stumbled ;  dropped  them.  They  scattered  all  about 
the  floor.  Calverly  sprang  to  pick  them  up.  The  Honorable 
Tim  flopped  down  on  his  hands  and  knees  and  started  about 
the  room,  picking  up  a  sheet  at  a  time. 

Calverly  heard  a  sound  and  glanced  up. 

In  the  door  stood  a  large  man,  frowning  down  at  them. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  87 

Maclntyre  was  saying,  as  he  crawled  about: 

"Buy  County  Railways.  You  see  I'm  trusting  you  with 
a  sacred  confidence.  That  shows  the  kind  of  friend  I  am. 
Understand?  I'm  trusting  you!" 

Calverly  stepped  aside ;  embarrassed ;  looking  from  one  to 
the  other. 

Maclntyre  caught  sight  of  the  newcomer ;  sat  back  on  the 
floor ;  said  with  dignity : 

"Dropped  my  speech,  Max.  That's  all."  He  suddenly 
chuckled.  "I  call  him  Max.  Max  O'Rell.  Little  joke. 
Name's  Harvey.  But  I  call  him  Max." 

Mr.  O'Rell  proved  himself  a  man  of  decision.  He  said  to 
Calverly : 

"Come  out  here !" 

Then,  in  the  hall,  added : 

"Who  are  you  ?" 

"I'm  from  the  News." 

"You  have  no  business  here  now." 

"I  was  shown  up." 

"You'd  better  go.    And  see  that  you  keep  your  head  shut." 

Mr.  O'Rell  returned  to  the  study,  closed  the  door,  and, 
leaving  the  Honorable  Tim  chuckling  on  the  floor,  called  up 
the  News  office.  Mr.  Listerly  had  gone  to  New  York,  it 
seemed ;  would  be  back  to-morrow  evening.  He  spoke  then 
to  Mr.  Winterbeck.  Said : 

"Harvey  O'Rell  speaking.  Who  is  this  man  you  sent  up 
to  Mayor  Maclntyre?" 

"A  new  man,  name  of  Stafford." 

"What  do  you  know  about  his  discretion?" 

"Very  little.    But  I  think  he's  all  right." 

"An  awkward  situation  has  arisen  here.  It  would  be 
much  the  best  thing  not  to  let  that  fellow  write  his  impres- 
sions. I'll  get  hold  of  Tutterville  and  have  him  do  a  story 
for  you  at  once.  What  is  it  you  wanted?  General  com- 
ments from  the  mayor  apropos  of  the  Cantey  Memorial 
celebration?  I'll  have  that  for  you  by  ten  o'clock." 

Sam  Tutterville  was  press  agent  for  County  Railways. 


88 

Winterbeck  gave  a  very  brief  moment  to  thought.  O'Rell 
was  not  a  man  you  spoke  carelessly  to.  Then  he  said,  in 
his  quick  decisive  way: 

"Thank  you.  Don't  trouble.  We  shall  have  the  monu- 
ment story  well  enough  covered.  Good-by." 

When  the  new  reporter  came  into  the  city  room,  half  an 
hour  later,  and  dropped  down  at  one  of  the  long  desks,  the 
city  editor  looked  intently  at  him,  considered  calling  him 
over,  but  finally  let  him  alone.  The  man  had  a  far-away 
look.  He  began  writing  at  once,  writing  hard.  He  seemed 
hardly  to  know  where  he  was;  he  just  wrote  with  all  his 
being,  when  he  wasn't  coughing,  bent  over  the  paper,  his 
face  working  now  and  then,  as  if  his  emotions  were  deeply 
involved  in  his  task.  It  would  do  no  harm  to  wait  and  look 
over  what  he  had  to  say.  Though  it  would  be  easier  if  he 
would  only  use  a  typewriter.  Mr.  Listerly,  however,  seemed 
bent  on  giving  the  fellow  every  kind  of  chance.  .  .  .  He 
was  clever.  His  review  of  the  girl  show  at  the  Cantey 
Square  had  been  an  extraordinary  bit  of  writing,  however 
impossible  for  a  time-serving  newspaper.  .  .  .  What  on 
earth  could  have  brought  O'Rell  to  the  point  of  calling  up 
direct !  Had  the  man  Stafford  done  some  outrageous  thing? 
His  review  had  shown  he  hadn't  a  glimmer  of  the  worldly 
wisdom  a  man  must  have  to  get  on.  Or  had  the  Honorable 
Tim  gone  on  the  warpath?  Either  was  possible.  But  in 
either  event,  direct  dictation  from  the  mighty  O'Rell  stirred 
the  blood.  It  was  the  first  time.  Perhaps  Mr.  Listerly  had 
to  take  it,  from  County  Railways  as  from  the  Cantey  Na- 
tional Bank  crowd.  Winterbeck  himself  didn't  like  the 
feeling  of  it. 

At  this  time  the  News  had  no  managing  editor.  Mr.  Lis- 
terly, as  publisher,  kept  close  enough  to  his  desk  to  cover 
a  part  of  the  job;  and  Winterbeck,  through  sheer  ability,  did 
the  rest  of  it.  It  was  perhaps  not  the  best  sort  of  organiza- 
tion, arising  as  it  did  from  the  personalities  of  'the  two  men ; 
but  they  had  drifted  into  it.  Winterbeck  was  a  quick  hard 
thinker,  blunt  and  driving.  He  always  told  Mr.  Listerly 
what  was  what.  And  the  publisher  liked  him  for  his  rugged 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  89 

outlines  and  for  the  way  his  quality  turned  up  all  through 
the  paper  as  dignity  and  vigor.  A  newspaper  had  to  have 
character.  It  had  to  have  other  qualities,  as  well,  in  Mr.  Lis- 
terly's  judgment — restraint,  a  subtle  skill  in  threading  its 
way  among  the  claims  of  local  interests,  a  measure  of  sub- 
servience— but  these  he  could  supply  himself.  He  was  older, 
more  adroit,  mellower  in  expression.  And  through  the  sim- 
ple expedient  of  keeping  Winterbeck  off  the  editorial  page — 
which  was,  after  all,  merely  proper  organization — he  could 
and  did  give  him  just  about  all  the  rope  he  could  use. 

It  was  after  eleven  when  the  man  Stafford  came  over  to 
Winterbeck's  horseshoe  desk.  He  looked  wan,  indifferent, 
coughed  a  good  deal. 

"I've  written  some  stuff  about  the  mayor/'  he  began. 

Winterbeck  clapped  a  hand  over,  a  telephone  transmitter, 
and  listened. 

"Just  what  came  to  me.  I  don't  know  if  it's  what  you 
want." 

The  editor  finished  telephoning;  snapped  the  receiver  on 
the  hook. 

"What  happened  up  there  ?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"Why — well,  the  man  was  drunk." 

"He  often  is.    What  else?" 

"Oh — well,  I  got  sort  of  interested.  Just  watching  him, 
and  thinking  of  him  as  the  mayor  of  the  city." 

That  was  all  he  had  to  say,  apparently.  He  looked  almost 
ill,  but  in  a  wandering  way  seemed  pleased  with  himself. 

Winterbeck  said: 

"Leave  it  here.    That'll  be  all  for  to-night." 

He  began  skimming  the  interview,  but  was  drawn  quickly 
into  a  close  reading.  Telephones  rang ;  reporters  came  in ; 
brass-and-rubber  carriers  popped  out  of  the  pneumatic 
tubes.  He  met  the  interruptions  with  a  practised  brain. 
After  two  pages  he  went  back  and  edited  the  copy  himself, 
in  pencil.  Here  and  there  he  cut  a  phrase  or  a  sentence; 
but  most  of  it  stood  intact. 

After  he  had  turned  the  last  page,  he  looked  up  at  the 
ceiling,  intently,  and  drummed  with  nervous  fingers  on  the 


90  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

desk.  It  was  the  most  difficult  moment  so  far  in  the  life  of 
Frank  Winterbeck ;  a  moment  of  high  decision. 

Stafford,  whoever,  whatever  he  might  be,  wrote  like  a  man 
from  Mars.  His  detachment  from  the  familiar  web  of  life 
seemed  positively  inhuman.  He  had  written  what  one  never 
writes,  the  truth ;  beginning  with  a  perfect  word  picture  of 
the  mayor's  early  home  in  the  corner  tenement  over  a  saloon, 
passing  lightly  thence  to  the  amazing  mansion  on  the  Hill, 
presenting  the  Honorable  Tim  at  his  desk  backed  and  sur- 
rounded by  evidences  of  his  Napoleonic  megalomania,  quot- 
ing what  he  had  said  in  language  that  bore  in  its  utter  rhe- 
torical verisimilitude  every  internal  evidence  of  being  Tim 
Maclntyre's  own,  reaching  a  climax  in  the  scene  of  the 
mayor  sprawling  on  the  floor  and  the  entrance  of  O'Rell,  and 
concluding  with  that  gentleman's  final  rough  orders  in  the 
hall. 

"So  County  Railways  are  cutting  a  melon  next  week,  are 
they!"  mused  Winterbeck.  "That's  why  they've  been  run- 
ning the  stock  down.  And  Tim's  in  on  it.  In  so  deep  he  can 
afford  to  throw  away  ten  thousand  or  so  on  a  reporter !" 

It  wasn't  criminal  evidence,  exactly.  But  it  was  unques- 
tionably accurate.  Tim  and  O'Rell  appeared  each  perfectly 
in  character.  And  they  couldn't  very  well  deny  it.  The 
public  would  see  in  it  that  explanation  of  the  Maclntyre 
mansion  they  had  for  several  years  been  groping  rather 
helplessly  for.  It  was  the  perfect  answer  to  the  stinging 
question :  "Where  did  he  get  it  ?"  And  it  was,  Winterbeck 
knew,  the  finest  picture  of  a  dishonest  political  charlatan 
that  had  ever  been  drawn.  It  would  be  copied  everywhere. 
Other  time-serving  papers  would  reprint  it  out  of  a  sheer 
joy  in  the  thing  as  literature.  In  its  detachment,  in  its  calm 
unconscious  honesty,  it  was  irresistible.  It  had  the  simple 
finality  of  the  Judgment  Seat. 

"It  will  kill  Tim,"  Winterbeck  reflected.  "But  that's  a 
good  act." 

He  scrawled  his  initials  on  the  first  page,  thrust  the  manu- 
script into  a  carrier,  and  shot  it  down  the  tube. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

Indicating  That  a  Man  from  Mars   Would  Fare  Rather 
Better  in  Confining  His  Activities  to  that  Planet 

THE  Honorable  Tim  Maclntyre,  on  the  following  morn- 
ing, looked  over  the  News  in  bed.  Nearly  four  columns 
of  page  three  he  found  devoted  to  himself.  The  headings 
disturbed  him.  What  he  read  beneath  disturbed  him  more. 
At  first  he  wasn't  sure  what  it  all  meant ;  his  head  was  none 
too  clear.  He  was  accustomed  to  columns  upon  columns 
about  himself  in  the  local  papers,  most  of  it  praise.  Not  a 
week  passed  but  he  saw  himself,  in  two-  or  three-column 
half-tone  cut  laying  a  cornerstone  or  addressing  a  visiting 
convention.  Certain  opposition  papers  attacked  his  work, 
of  course ;  but  never  his  personal  life.  The  present  long 
article  didn't  read  like  an  attack.  It  was  simply,  pleasantly 
written.  References  to  his  rise  from  a  tenement  corner  al- 
ways pleased  him;  they  were  indeed  a  part  of  his  own  politi- 
cal rhetoric.  And  at  first  he  liked  the  picture  of  himself 
as  a  modern  Napoleon  with  his  books  and  engravings  about 
him.  But  he  couldn't  understand  the  restrained  but  never- 
theless vivid  word  picture  of  himself  crawling  about  the 
floor.  And  all  that  about  cutting  in  on  the  County  Rail- 
ways melon;  that  dazed  him  a  bit.  It  shouldn't  have  been 
said. 

It  wasn't  until  he  got  into  his  slippers  and  went  into  the 
bathroom  to  shave  that  the  force  of  the  picture  began  to 
strike  him.  That  quiet  green  young  fellow  was  making  him 
ridiculous.  He  didn't  like  it.  He'd  see  about  it.  He'd  set- 
tle that  young  fellow.  He'd  show  him  who  was  running 
this  town. 

Still  the  significance  of  the  printed  picture  was  trickling — 
slowly — into  his  consciousness.  It  was  very  quietly  handled, 
all  that  about  County  Railways,  but  he  couldn't  possibly  have 

91 


92  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

said  it.  Not  he.  It  was  the  sort  of  thing  people  wouldn't 
understand.  Or  was  it? 

He  went  back  to  the  bedroom  and  read  that  part  again,  the 
lather  drying  unpleasantly  on  his  face. 

Then  he  rushed  back  into  his  study  and  snatched  up  the 
telephone.  His  impulse  had  been  to  call  up  O'Rell.  But 
this  job  was  too  big  for  Harvey.  County  Railways  was 
Cantey  Estate ;  the  News  was  Cantey  Estate ;  in  a  sense 
O'Rell  and  Listerly  were  rival  department  heads.  O'Rell 
would  never  admit  that;  but  Listerly  would  be  inclined  to 
take  a  position  on  it. 

He  considered  calling  Listerly;  then  reconsidered.  He 
had  his  dignity  to  consider,  his  position.  And  he  mustn't 
let  Listerly  draw  him.  Yet  he  must  act  quickly.  They'd 
have  the  Grand  Jury  down  on  him  before  night,  if  he  didn't 
look  out.  They'd  be  asking  him  to  account  for  this  and  that. 
They'd  be  dipping  into  his  personal  relations  with  a  certain 
great  contracting  company.  It  was  odd,  but  for  a  time  now 
his  thoughts  centered  on  the  small  business  of  the  grand 
stand  in  Cantey  Square,  erected  during  the  week  just  gone 
for  the  public  ceremony  about  the  statue.  It  was  one  of  his 
particular  little  perquisites,  this  putting  up  a  temporary 
stand  on  the  smallest  public  excuse.  The  city  paid  the  con- 
tractors twelve  thousand  dollars  for  the  job;  the  contrac- 
tors paid  twelve  hundred  dollars  back  to  the  mayor.  It  was 
an  understood  thing.  But  he  had  thought  several  times 
lately  that  it  was  a  bit  too  crude.  Indirection  was  better; 
for  instance,  this  matter  of  sharing  in  the  County  Railways 
killing,  while  it  could  be  criticized,  might,  indeed,  make 
trouble,  still  it  wasn't  bribery.  Not  technical  bribery. 
Among  all  the  complexities  of  the  law,  there  were  ways  out, 
main-traveled  ways. 

He  decided — he  was  back  at  his  shaving  mirror  now,  and 
was  muttering  aloud — that  the  thing  to  do  was  to  put  Henry 
MacKennon,  his  sister's  husband,  into  the  contracting  com- 
pany, and  let  it  come  to  Henry  in  the  form  of  extra  divi' 
dends,  or  as  salary.  The  trouble  was,  Henry  would  be  shak- 
ing him  down  ag^in.  Henry  was  getting  greedier  and 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  93 

greedier,  was  expanding  constantly  in  his  ambitions  and  his 
living  expenses.  And  Anna,  though  she  was  quieter  about 
it — a  deep  girl,  Anna! — had  hardened  up  a  lot  of  recent 
years  and  wanted  always  more. 

The  telephone  was  ringing.  It  was  O'Rell.  His  tone 
frightened  the  mayor.  O'Rell  was  blazing,  was  for  coming 
down  hard  on  the  paper. 

Maclntyre  said,  expansively : 

"You  keep  quiet,  Harvey!  Leave  it  to  me.  I'll  handle 
the  fool." 

After  which  he  sat  shaking. 

He  finally  pushed  the  telephone  instrument  away ;  turned 
to  the  works  on  Napoleon ;  rose ;  looked  up  at  the  engraving 
of  the  greatest  adventurer  standing  alone  on  a  hill  on  St. 
Helena;  unconsciously  fell  into  a  similar  attitude,  even  to 
thrusting  his  right  hand  in  between  the  frogs  on  his  pa- 
jamas. Habit  was  asserting  itself.  The  old  notion  was 
gaining  ground  among  his  bewildered  thoughts  that  he, 
like  Napoleon,  was  a  fighter,  a  leader,  a  prince  of  men, 
rising  above  all  mere  petty  disaster. 

Henry  MacKennon  called  up  next.  Maclntyre  told  him 
roughly  to  sit  tight,  keep  his  shirt  on. 

John  Milhenning,  the  mayor's  secretary,  shortly  appeared, 
and  sat  by  while  his  honor  finished  dressing. 

"Don't  you  worry,"  cried  his  honor,  with  a  petulant  jovial- 
ity, "I  see  through  the  whole  thing.  It's  Bob  Listerly  hitting 
at  O'Rell  through  me." 

The  secretary  shook  his  head,  heavily. 

"That's  what  it  is,  my  boy.  You  watch  me  for  a  few 
hours.  I'll  show  you.  It's  a  flank  attack.  It  calls  for  a 
sharp  counter-attack,  which  I  shall  make  before  noon.  Then 
we'll  see  where  Bob  stands." 

"Listerly  isn't  here,  though.  Won't  be  until  to-night. 
He's  in  New  York." 

"But  don't  you  see,"  cried  the  mayor  eagerly,  turning  for 
a  moment  from  the  mirror,  "that's  just  what  he'd  do — run 
off — leave  a  goat  in  charge." 

l'Xo,"  the  secretary  insisted.    "It's  too  early  in  the  day  to 


94  Till-.   PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

get  hold  of  the  newspaper  boys,  of  course,  but  this  much  I 
have  learned — Frank  Winterbeck  put  this  through  on  his 
own." 

"Ha!"  muttered  the  mayor.  "He  did  that,  did  he!  Well, 
that  makes  it  just  so  much  easier.  Winterbeck's  small  fry. 
We'll  soon  dispose  of  him !" 

Hardly  an  hour  later — it  was  between  nine  and  ten — 
Frank  Winterbeck  was  awakened  out  of  a  sound  sleep  by  a 
messenger  boy  bearing  a  note  from  John  Milhenning  re- 
questing the  editor  to  come  at  once  to  the  city  attorney's 
office. 

Winterbeck  sent  a  verbal  refusal  and  went  promptly  back 
to  bed. 

The  mayor  kept  his  house  until  eleven.  Serious  men 
came  and  went,  a  number  of  them.  The  city  attorney  called 
up  at  short  intervals. 

Listerly,  it  appeared,  was  on  the  train  ;  couldn't  be  reached. 

Harvey  O'Rell  sat  in  the  mayor's  study  from  nine  o'clock 
until  his  honor  left,  hovering  over  the  telephone.  By  half 
past  ten  County  Railways  had  jumped  from  one  hundred 
twenty-two  and  three-quarters  to  one  hundred  and  thirty- 
seven,  and  was  still  rising.  Every  small  gambler  in  town 
who  so  much  as  knew  the  way  to  a  broker's  office  was  buy- 
ing. Over  the  wires  came  the  word  that  New  York,  Phila- 
delphia and  Boston  were  buying.  The  melon  was  already 
assured  of  a  wide,  almost  democratic  distribution. 

"There's  this  to  consider,"  said  O'Rell.  "They're  running 
wild.  They  won't  know  when  to  stop.  It  won't  stand  more 
than  one  hundred  and  forty  to  one  hundred  and  forty-three. 
If  they  put  it  to  one  hundred  and  forty-five  we  can  start 
selling;  sell  'em  all  they  can  carry  away.  Bound  to  be  a 
reaction  then." 

He  said  this  as  much  as  anything  to  cheer  up  the  mayor. 
It  had  already  been  necessary  to  take  his  liquor  away.  The 
man,  now,  was  frightened  almost  to  death.  Winterbeck  had 
been  reached  now — the  city  attorney  had  gone  straight  to 
his  apartment  when  the  messenger  came  back  without  him, 
and  routed  him  out.  The  story  came  in  over  the  telephone, 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  95 

toward  eleven.  Winterbeck  had  told  him  to  go  to  hell.  At 
the  threat  of  action,  he  laughed.  To  the  demand  that  he 
print  a  retraction  on  the  front  page  of  to-morrow's  News, 
he  replied  that  they  would  have  to  see  Mr.  Listerly.  Mr. 
Listerly  could  have  his  resignation  in  one  minute.  But  he 
wouldn't  backwater  for  anybody  else.  And  he  wouldn't 
print  a  retraction  even  for  him.  "Tim  Maclntyre's  a  con- 
temptible crook,"  he  said.  "Everybody  knows  it,  but  be- 
fore this  we've  never  caught  him.  We've  got  him  on  the 
run  now.  This  ought  to  be  enough  to  stir  up  a  little  inquiry 
into  paving  contracts.  For  that  matter,  we  might  look  into 
this  grandstand  habit  of  his." 

O'Rell  repeated  all  this  verbatim  to  the  mayor,  thinking 
it  might  stir  his  fighting  blood.  But  the  mayor  collapsed 
in  his  swivel  chair.  They  let  him  have  a  drink  of  whisky 
then  just  to  keep  him  going. 

He  revived  quickly.  At  eleven  he  sent  John  Milhenning 
out  for  the  mayor's  automobile.  And  ordering  them  all  to 
mark  time  until  his  return,  he  disappeared. 

The  nature  of  his  errand  has  its  points  of  interest.  Some 
fifty-odd  miles  away  lived,  on  his  great  country  estate,  Sena- 
tor Painter,  the  richest  man  in  the  state,  one  of  the  most 
powerful  men  in  the  United  States.  The  Painter  money 
flowed  unrecognized  into  hundreds  of  solid  business  enter- 
prises, into  banks,  insurance  companies,  traction  interests, 
railroads  and  hotels.  A  corps  of  skilful  and  subservient 
lawyers  appeared  for  it  here  and  there  on  boards  of  direc- 
tors. 

Senator  Painter  and  James  H.  Cantey  had  been  friends ; 
the  one  shrewd,  reflective,  born  to  be  a  background  figure, 
a  manipulator  of  puppets,  the  other  bold,  dynamic.  Their 
interests  had  interlocked  in  a  hundred  ways.  Though 
County  Railways  was  Cantey  Estate,  there  was  Painter 
money  in  it  and  a  Painter  man  or  two  on  the  board.  There 
was  Painter  money  even  in  the  News,  a  fact  known  to  few. 
And  Painter  influence,  always  quiet  and  unseen,  reached  into 
the  private  councils  of  nearly  every  bank  in  the  city. 

William  H.  Painter,  as  it  happened,  had  sat  for  eleven 


96  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

years  in  the  Senate  of  the  United  States  as  an  old-school 
Republican,  almost  a  War  Republican.  Tim  Maclntyre  and 
his  crowd  were  Democrats.  The  city,  in  fact,  had  been 
Democratic  for  fourteen  years.  But  it  is  money,  after  all, 
that  rules ;  and  money  has  no  party.  So  it  was  to  Senator 
Painter,  as  to  a  final  boss  of  bosses,  that  the  Honorable  Tim 
rushed  in  his  dire  extremity. 

Mr.  Listerly  picked  up  a  copy  of  the  News  at  noon,  in  the 
Pittsburgh  station,  as  he  came  through ;  and  read  that  third 
page  matter  in  the  dining-car ;  folded  it  back  and  propped  it 
against  the  water  bottle.  After  which,  deliberately  enough, 
back  in  the  observation  car,  he  wrote  two  telegrams  and  had 
the  porter  drop  them  off  for  him.  The  one  to  his  broker 
read  simply — "Sell  County  Railways," — the  other,  to  Frank 
Winterbeck,  read — "Meet  me  at  the  junction  four  fifteen." 
"Have  a  cigar,"  said  the  chief  to  Winterbeck,  when  they 
met.  "Keep  the  dust  out  of  your  throat.  Been  a  dusty 
trip.  Never  saw  the  country  so  dry  in  spring.  Who  wrote 
the  story?" 
"Stafford." 

"Hmm !  Thought  so.  Brilliant  young  man." 
"You  told  me  once  not  to  go  after  Maclntyre  until  I  got 
the  goods  on  him.  This  thing  came  out  of  the  clear  sky.  I 
sent  Stafford  for  the  usual  palaver,  re  the  Unveiling.  He 
came  back  and  wrote  this.  It's  the  goods  on  Tim,  all  right. 
It's  unanswerable.  Perfectly  done.  They  could  answer  a 
lot  of  formal  evidence,  or  an  indictment,  or  even  an  arrest. 
But  they'll  never  be  able  to  answer  this.  It's  the  most  pow- 
erful blow  Tim's  ever  had.  Makes  a  monkey  of  him." 

"Yes,  it  does  that.    So  you  decided  to  run  it  as  it  stood." 
"Oh,  I  cut  it  a  little.     Tim's  bragging  that  he  had  his 
'foot  in  the  Cantey  door.'     A  gem!     But  I  cut  that.     No 
good  involving  the  Cantey  Estate." 

"No,"  Mr.  Listerly  smoked  easily,  "no  good  in  that." 
"And  now,  Mr.  Listerly,  I  want  your  permission  to  follow 
it  up.     This  hooks  up  with  all  that  old  stuff  we've  had  on 
Tim.     I  want  to  go  after  him;  make  a  job  of  it.     He's  a 
crook." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  97 

"Oh,  yes,  he's  that." 

"We  can  break  him." 

Mr.  Listerly  considered  this.  "Well,"  he  said,  at  length. 
"I  don't  know  as  there'll  be  anybody  very  anxious  to  defend 
him,  nobody  that  counts.  I  don't  know  but  what  we  can 
afford  it.  The  advertisers'll  hardly  dare  make  an  issue  of  it. 
The  readers'll  like  it.  I  should  say — well — yes,  go  ahead." 

By  eight  that  evening  Winterbeck  had  his  follow-up  story 
planned  in  detail — three  of  his  best  men  were  out  on  the 
case — when  Mr.  Listerly  strolled  out  and  sat  on  a  corner  of 
the  horseshoe  desk. 

"Got  a  little  disappointment  for  you,  Frank,"  he  said. 

He  tossed  a  typed  paragraph  on  the  desk. 

Winterbeck  snatched  it  up,  and  read: 

"The  News  yesterday,  during  the  absence  of  the  pub- 
lisher from  the  city,  published  a  story  purporting  to  be  an 
interview  with  Mayor  T.  J.  Maclntyre  that  was,  on  its  face, 
libelous,  scurrilous,  utterly  false.  It  was  written  by  a  new 
member  of  the  staff,  who,  needless  to  say,  has  since  been 
discharged. 

"The  publisher  of  the  News  deeply  regrets  that  this  paper 
should  have  been  made,  for  one  day,  the  vehicle  for  so  ma- 
licious an  assault,  apparently  instigated  by  interests  out- 
side the  city,  on  the  character  of  our  mayor.  Personally  and 
in  the  name  of  the  paper  I  hereby  apologize  to  Mr.  Macln- 
tyre, and  further  beg  to  assure  him  that  the  News  hereby 
pledges  to  him  its  continued  unqualified  support. 

"(Signed)     R.  B.  LISTERLY,  Publisher." 

Winterbeck's  face  slowly  paled.  He  seemed  to  be  read- 
ing the  paper  over  and  over. 

"I  had  dinner  with  Oswald  Quakers  at  the  club  just  now." 
Thus  Mr.  Listerly.  "He  made  it  plain  that  we've  got  to  do 
this.  We're  to  run  it  in  a  box  not  less  than  three  columns 
wide  above  the  middle  line  of  page  one  to-morrow.  All 
editions." 

Oswald  Qualters  was  known  as  attorney  for  the  Painter 
interests. 


98  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"Painter  doesn't  own  the  News,"  snapped  Winterbeck. 

"Only  part  of  it,  Frank.  But  with  a  word  he  could  call 
our  loans,  tie  up  our  next  delivery  of  paper,  throw  us  on  the 
town." 

"It  wouldn't  help  him  much  to  wreck  the  property." 

"No,  but  he  could  install  another  publisher  and  another 
staff." 

"I  don't  believe  Senator  Painter'd  stand  for  this.  Why 
don't  you  call  him  up?" 

"Did  that.  From  the  club.  He  advised  me  to  do  what  I 
thought  right." 

"That  all?" 

"No,  when  I  pressed  him,  he  explained  that  he  really 
didn't  know  a  thing  about  it,  and  that  I'd  better  talk  to 
Quakers.  No,  Frank,  it's  thumbs  down.  We  can't  help 
ourselves.  I'm  sorry  to  upset  your  plans." 

He  rose.  He  didn't  seem  to  care  much ;  was  his  usual 
casual,  quizzical  self. 

Winterbeck  reached  for  a  sheet  of  copy  paper;  wrote  his 
resignation,  to  go  into  effect  the  moment  that  the  apology 
was  sent  to  the  composing  room ;  silently  handed  it  to  his 
chief. 

It  was  after  he  had  read  it  that  Mr.  Listerly  gave  his  first 
faint  display  of  feeling.  He  sighed. 

"Frank,"  he  said,  "don't  do  this.  Think  it  over.  You're 
taking  it  too  hard.  A  newspaper,  after  all,  is  a  piece  of 
property.  We  have  no  right  to  make  it  a  vehicle  for  our 
personal  notions." 

"Is  that  thing  going  down  ?"  asked  Winterbeck. 

"Why — yes,  we  have  no  choice  about  that." 

"Then  you'll  have  to  O.  K.  it  yourself,  Mr.  Listerly." 

Ten  minutes  later  the  city  editor  was  gone,  for  good; 
and  a  man  from  the  telegraph  desk  was  sitting  in  his  place. 

Mr.  Listerly  sighed  a  number  of  times  during  the  evening. 
But  before  midnight  he  had  the  great  machine  running 
fairly  well.  One  thing,  he  decided  to  get  a  mar  <:itor. 

Under  the  old  system  there  had  been  altogether  too  i 
desk  work  for  himself.    In  some  respects  the  new  arrange- 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  99 

ment  would  be  a  good  thing.  Frank  had  been  taking  a  good 
deal  on  himself  lately,  anyway ;  a  shake-up  would  do  him 
good. 

The  man  Stafford  was  mildly  on  Mr.  Listerly's  mind.  He 
had  lunched  with  Guard  in  New  York,  and  had  listened,  to 
the  verge  of  boredom,  to  praise  of  that  young  man.  Guard 
was  ready  to  plan  publication  of  the  Cantey  biography,  and 
was  keen  to  give  Stafford  a  try  at  the  job.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  Mr.  Listerly  recalled  that  he  had  promised  to  put  this 
through.  Guard  couldn't  hold  him  to  it,  of  course.  Though 
he  had  been  curiously  insistent ;  had  made  quite  a  point  of 
it.  And  the  promise  had  passed.  .  .  .  Mr.  Listerly 
wavered,  during  the  evening,  in  regard  to  this.  He  even 
sent  out  inquiries  regarding  Stafford ;  but  the  man  had  dis- 
appeared, apparently,  off  the  face  of  the  earth.  No  one  had 
seen  him,  for  twenty-four  hours.  Abel  Timothy,  who 
seemed  interested  to  the  point  of  curiosity,  looked  up  the 
address  Winterbcck  had;  an  obscure  boarding-house,  ap- 
parently, away  out  Peck  Avenue  by  the  lumber  yards.  But 
a  telephoned  inquiry  brought  the  report  that  Mr.  Stafford 
had  packed  up  and  left  the  evening  before  without  a  word. 
He  had  acted  queerly  on  previous  occasions.  The  landlady 
felt  relieved  to  be  rid  of  him. 

Mr.  Listerly  decided  then  that  the  man  by  his  own  actions 
was  releasing  him  from  any  slight  moral  obligation  he  may 
have  incurred  in  the  chat  with  Guard.  He'd  consider  giv- 
ing the  job  to  Hitt ;  think  it  over  a  few  days ;  there  wasn't 
any  great  hurry.  The  old  boy  was  wild  to  do  it.  He'd  be 
safe,  if  uninspired. 

Guard  had  been  rather  extravagant,  anyway. 

At  this  point  Mr.  Listerly  dismissed  the  Stafford  person 
from  his  mind  as  a  nuisance. 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 
The  Tide  of  Life  Runs  Low 

MARGIE  DAW  slipped  into  her  boyish  blue  coat ;  pulled 
down  on  her  head  her  little  felt  hat ;  opened  the  door 
of  her  apartment.     It  was  eleven  in  the  morning.     Miss 
Daw's  day  was  about  to  begin. 

A  folded  paper  lay  on  the  sill.  Her  name  was  on  it,  writ- 
ten in  pencil  in  a  small  even  hand.  Quickly  she  opened  it. 

"Dear  Miss  Daw,"  it  read,  "I'm  ill  here,  and  haven't  any 
phone.  Would  you  be  willing  to  send  a  doctor  to  321  ? 

"H.  STAFFORD." 

She  stepped  back  into  her  minute  living-room;  pressed  a 
finger  to  her  lips.  No  note  had  lain  there  when  she  took  in 
her  morning  paper,  an  hour  earlier.  "Here,"  and  "321" 
must  mean  this  very  building.  So  he  had  come ! 

She  was  glad  he  was  ill ;  it  put  him  quite  in  her  hands. 
There  were  problems  to  be  worked  out ;  in  her  eagerness  the 
other  day  she  hadn't  bothered  to  consider  them.  But  now 
that  he  was  unexpectedly,  actually  here.  .  .  . 

She  went  up  to  321,  on  the  floor  next  above  ;  tapped  softly  ; 
then  tried  the  door.  It  opened.  She  slipped  in  and  quickly 
closed  it  behind  her.  It  was  just  as  well  not  to  be  seen  com- 
ing in  here. 

It  was  one  of  the  furnished  apartments.  There  was  a 
"golden  oak"  table,  a  stuffy  upholstered  chair,  an  ornate 
rocker,  a  picture  or  two — a  print  of  an  English  cathedral, 
another  of  sheep  on  a  road,  the  familiar  platter,  toad  and 
crying  child — a  worn  carpet  rug.  A  shabby  traveling  bag 
stood  open  on  a  chair.  The  one  window  here  in  the  living- 
room  gave  on  a  court,  facing  other  windows.  This  was 
awkward.  She  listened  a  moment,  and  heard  heavy  hoarse 

100 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  101 

breathing;  he  was  in  the  bedroom,  asleep.  She  crossed 
quickly  to  the  window  and  drew  down  the  shade. 

A  photograph  stood  on  the  table  in  a  silver  frame — a  deli- 
cately pretty  girl  of  nineteen  or  twenty.  She  studied  it.  It 
was  a  little  old-fashioned ;  the  ballooning  sleeves  of  five  or 
six  years  back,  and  stiff  linen  collar,  and  severe  "sailor" 
straw  hat.  It  was — it  must  have  been — his  dead  wife. 

The  picture  fascinated  her.  It  brought  up  in  Miss  Daw's 
rich  quick  imagination  the  whole  story  of  the  trial. 

In  the  next  room  he  coughed,  thrashed  about,  muttered. 

She  put  down  the  picture ;  tiptoed  part  way  to  the  door ; 
hesitated — for  Margie,  despite  her  marital  experience  and 
the  hardening  she  had  gone  through  in  the  rough  give  and 
take  of  newspaper  work,  was  only  twenty-six,  and  was, 
therefore,  at  moments,  governed  by  the  impulses  and  reti- 
cences of  youth.  I  think,  too,  that  the  importance  of  the 
quarry  in  this  curious  hunt  of  hers  (for  it  was  a  hunt) — the 
thought  that  the  man  she  had  tracked  and,  now,  run  down 
was  none  other  than  Henry  Calverly — gave  her,  just  for  the 
moment,  a  sensation  not  so  remote  from  what  the  literal 
hunter  knows  as  "buck  ague."  So  she  hesitated.  Even 
considered  turning  back.  Then,  a  thought  breathless,  her 
color  up  a  little,  her  eyes  very  bright,  she  advanced  to  the 
bedroom  door. 

He  was  stretched  out  in  bathrobe  and  slippers ;  unshaven ; 
longish  hair  tousled;  haggard  of  face.  He  was  deeply 
flushed;  fever  surely.  And  his  bronchial  passages  were 
choked  so  that  he  breathed  with  difficulty.  He  went  off  now 
into  a  paroxysm  of  coughing. 

His  eyes  opened.  He  didn't  seem  to  take  in  at  first  that 
she  was  standing  beside  the  bed.  Then  he  tried  to  speak. 

She  thought  he  said,  "Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  make  you 
come  here." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  she.  She  was  surprised,  even  net- 
tled, at  her  own  breathlessness ;  told  herself  that  there  was 
no  sense  in  letting  herself  get  stirred  up. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  hot  forehead.     It  soothed  him. 


102  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

She  went  then  to  the  bathroom,  wrung  out  a  towel  in  cold 
water,  and  laid  that  on  his  head. 

"Looks  like  grippe,"  said  she.    "Do  you  ache?" 

His  reply  was  a  moan. 

Then  he  said:  "Will  you  tell  them  at  the  office?"  And 
went  into  another  fit  of  coughing. 

With  a  tightening  of  her  nerves  and  an  even  higher  color, 
she  sank  on  the  edge  of  the  bed;  sat  there;  pressed  the 
towel  about  his  temples. 

So  he  didn't  know  that  he  was  in  utter  and  final  disgrace ! 
She  glanced  about  the  room ;  there  was  no  sign  of  the  morn- 
ing paper.  And  he  couldn't  have  seen  hers. 

The  public  retraction,  in  its  three-column  box  above  the 
middle  of  page  one,  had  made  her  wince.  There  had  been 
a  few  moments  of  sheer  disgust  with  the  paper,  with  Mr. 
Listerly,  with  the  city  itself,  during  which  she  had  consid- 
ered, as  she  usually  did  in  such  moments,  chucking  it  up 
altogether  and  going  down  to  New  York.  There  ought  to  be 
chances  there  for  an  experienced  and  not  bad-looking  girl. 
There  was,  here  and  there  in  New  York,  some  snappy, 
independent  journalism.  The  town  was  bigger,  the  indi- 
vidual advertiser  less  imminent. 

She  decided  now  that  he  mustn't  see  that  paper  at  all. 
Not,  at  least,  while  he  was  down  this  way.  Likely  as  not 
he'd  go  kill  himself  or  something ;  and  then  where  would  she 
be,  especially  if  ...  no,  she  knew,  however  exciting 
the  decision,  whatever  difficulties  it  stirred  up,  that  she  in- 
tended seeing  this  through.  He  must,  just  now,  be  cared 
for.  And  he  must  be  protected  from  a  world  that  he  never 
had  belonged  in. 

She  rummaged  through  her  wrist-bag. 

"Now  listen !"  she  said.  "I'm  going  to  send  a  doctor  right 
up  here.  You'll  need  a  nurse,  too." 

He  seemed  to  protest  at  this. 

"You've  got  to  be  taken  care  of.  Please  leave  it  to  me. 
Somebody's  got  to  get  your  food  and  things.  And  I'm  go- 
ing to  leave  my  key  here  on  the  bureau.  If  you  feel  up 
to  walking  down  the  stairs  again,  I  want  you  to  use  my 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  103 

rooms.  The  air's  better  there.  I'll  explain  that  to  the  doe- 
tor.  And  I'll  look  you  up  for  a  minute  at  supper-time." 

She  returned  to  her  own  rooms  and  telephoned  her  doc- 
tor. It  was  characteristic  that  she  did  tell  him  that  the  sick 
man  and  the  nurse  were  to  have  free  use  of  her  apartment. 
And  she  accounted  for  him  simply  as  a  friend  of  hers. 

She  hid  away  the  morning  News  in  a  bureau  drawer. 

At  the  office  she  found  old  Mr.  Upham,  deep  in  work  at 
his  desk  by  the  window.  For  a  moment,  at  the  sight  of  him, 
she  compressed  her  lips.  She  purposely  left  the  door  wide 
open.  At  every  sound  along  the  passage  she  glanced  up, 
rather  nervously. 

At  length  she  heard  a  slow  heavy  step ;  leaned  back,  ir- 
resolute ;  bent  forward  again  and  made  a  pretense  of  adjust- 
ing her  typewriter ;  looked  sidelong  at  the  door. 

The  portly  person  of  Abel  Timothy  appeared,  and  paused 
there,  hat  pushed  back  off  his  wide  forehead,  unlighted  cigar 
in  mouth. 

He  removed  the  cigar ;  raised  his  eyebrows ;  looked  as  if 
he  might,  under  very  slight  pressure,  come  in. 

She  shook  her  head ;  and  with  her  lips  framed  the  words : 

"Not  now.    Later." 

He  lingered. 

She  glanced  toward  Mr.  Upham;  then  moved  swiftly  to 
the  door  and  said,  low : 

"I'll  try  to  be  at  Philippe's  about  five." 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "if  you  really  want  things  to  go 
on  like  this,  I  guess  I  can  be  as  good  a  sport  as  the  next 
fellow.  .  .  ." 

"Not  here!"  she  murmured.  "Keep  your  head,  Abe!" 
And  returned  to  her  work. 

In  a  corner  alcove  at  Philippe's  they  had  a  drink. 

"Now  look  here,  Marge,"  said  he,  "I've  been  willing 
enough — " 

"I'm  not  particularly  strong  for  that  'Now  look  here,'  " 
said  she. 

"I  can't  figure  it  out,  Marge.  There's  a  difference. 
You're  hostile." 


101  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"No,  I'm  not  hostile,  Abe."  She  was  fingering  her  glass, 
thinking  hard.  She  had  a  delicate  course  to  steer.  She 
knew  that  any  single  superfluous  word  might  start  endless 
complications.  It  was  a  rule  of  her  life  never  to  tell  an 
unnecessary  lie.  This  was  the  sort  of  situation,  she  decided, 
in  which  you  told  the  necessary  lie  as  directly  as  possible 
and  let  it  go  at  that. 

"Yes,  that's  it.    You're  hostile." 

"Listen,  Abe!  You're  looking  at  me  wrong,  all  wrong. 
I'm  not  your  property.  I  never  was.  I'm  a  hard  working 
girl.  I'm  changeable.  I  have  moods.  .  .  ." 

"Moods !"  This  was  a  bitter  exclamation.  He  was  chew- 
ing and  chewing  his  cigar. 

"Yes,  moods.  There  are  times — you  ought  to  know  that, 
Abe — when  I  simply  have  to  be  alone.  This  is  one  of  those 
times.  I  must — I  will — be  let  alone.  I — I'm  fond  of  you, 
but  .  .  ." 

"But !" 

"Yes,  but.  Now  Abe,  another  thing.  It  oughtn't  to  be 
difficult,  but  it  is,  a  little.  It's  difficult  because  I'm  afraid 
I  know  just  the  train  of  thought  it's  going  to  start  in  your 
mind.  And  you'll  be  wrong.  .  .  .  Abe,  I've  lost  my 
key." 

"Oh !"  he  muttered,  after  a  long  silence— "that !" 

"No,  not  that!  It's  perfectly  simple,  natural.  If  you 
can  bring  yourself  to  think  sensibly  for  just  one  minute, 
you'll  see  how  simple  it  is.  A  coincidence,  yes.  I  do  want 
to  be  alone.  I'm  tired  of  men  for  a  while.  Tired  even  of 
you,  Abe.  If  you  want  me  to  be  fond  of  you  you'll  accept 
that  and  wait  me  out.  I  can't  help  how  I  feel.  And  now, 
at  this  same  time,  I've  lost  my  key.  I've  got  to  tell  you, 
no  matter  what  elaborate  and  unpleasant  stories  you  work 
up  in  your  own  mind.  Because  I  haven't  any  key."  She 
spread  her  hands.  "I  can't  get  in  to-night.  I  simply  haven't 
got  it." 

For  a  long  time  he  stared  at  the  threadbare  table-cloth, 
rolling  the  cigar  around  and  around  in  a  corner  of  his  wide 
mouth.  Then  he  muttered  again : 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  105 

"I  guess  you'll  get  in  all  right !" 

"Now,  Abe,  you  are  making  it  hard  for  me  even  to  be 
fond  of  you." 

He  looked  at  her,  smiled  unpleasantly,  drew  out  his  key- 
ring and  furtively  glancing  about  to  see  if  a  waiter  was  near, 
detached  a  key  and  tossed  it  to  her. 

She  quietly  put  it  in  her  bag. 

"Abe,"  she  said,  "I've  simply  got  to  believe  that  you'll 
laugh,  yourself,  at  this  ugly  mood  of  yours  when  you've 
had  an  hour  to  think  it  over.  I  can't,  even  to  protect  your 
feelings,  stay  locked  out  of  my  own  rooms." 

But  all  he  said,  and  this  was  just  before  they  parted,  out 
on  the  main  street,  was : 

"I  guess  I  can  let  you  alone,  all  right." 

A  week  later,  at  the  end  of  an  afternoon,  Margie  came 
brightly  into  her  apartment,  called  a  cheerful  greeting, 
dropped  her  coat  and  hat  on  the  living-room  table,  tidied  her 
hair,  and  then  went  into  the  bedroom,  curling  up  comfort- 
ably at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  surveyed  her  patient,  who 
was  propped  up  on  pillows  (hers  and  his)  at  the  other  end 
of  the  bed,  with  an  approving  bob  of  her  pretty  head. 

He  put  down  his  book  and  smiled,  wanly. 

"It's  a  pretty  good  job,"  said  she,  thoughtfully.  "Nobody 
ever  shaved  pneumonia  quite  so  close  and  escaped.  Where's 
Miss  Elaine  ?" 

She  said  this  brightly,  naturally;  but  then,  touched  unex- 
pectedly by  self -consciousness,  drooped  her  eyes. 

He  colored,  and  fingered  in  some  confusion  the  pages  of 
the  book.  After  a  moment,  he  cleared  his  throat  and  replied : 

"She  went  up-stairs  to  pack  her  things." 

They  fell  silent.  Then  she,  with  evident  effort,  began 
chattering  about  this  and  that  at  the  office.  But  the  effort 
was  not  wholly  successful.  She  went  into  the  living-room 
to  find  a  cigarette. 

The  nurse  came  in. 

Calverly  heard  them  talking,  very  low. 

Then  the  nurse  stepped  into  the  bedroom,  said  good-by, 


106  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

and  with  a  glance  of  not  altogether  controllable  curiosity 
from  her  patient  to  the  feminine  things  about  the  room, 
and  from  these  to  the  smartly  pretty  young  woman  who 
leaned  in  the  doorway  smoking  a  cigarette,  picked  up  her 
suit-case  and  left. 

Calverly  looked  out  the  window  for  what  seemed  to  him 
an  embarrassingly  long  time. 

Miss  Daw  perched  comfortably  on  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
leaned  back,  swung  a  pretty  foot,  and  smoked  reflectively. 

"I'll  move  up-stairs,"  said  he. 

"You'll  do  no  such  thing." 

"But—" 

"I'm  only  asking  you  to  be  sensible.  You're  weaker  than 
you  think.  Take  a  day  or  two  to  get  up  gradually.  To- 
morrow, if  you  feel  still  better,  you  can  dress.  Try  mov- 
ing around  a  little.  But  I  won't  hear  of  you're  moving 
to-day." 

"But  you're—" 

"I'm  perfectly  comfortable  up  there." 

"There's  another  thing  .  .  .  Miss  Blaine  .  .  . 
about  paying  her." 

"I  attended  to  that." 

"But—" 

"I'm  keeping  track.  Now  listen,  please !  You're  strapped, 
aren't  you?  .  .  .  Well,  I'm  not — not  completely — and 
what  little  I  can  do  you're  more  than  welcome  to.  It's  the 
way  we  do.  Good  heavens !  do  you  suppose  I  haven't  bor- 
rowed? Well,  I  have!  I'm  going  to  let  you  pay  it  back, 
when  you  get  to  earning  again.  Now  please  behave." 

"How  much  was  it?" 

"At  the  proper  time,  Hugh,  you  shall  have  an  itemized 
statement.  .  .  .  Do  you  know,  this  chance  to  study 
you,  especially  in  the  days  when  you  hardly  knew  what 
you  were  saying,  has  been  worth  a  lot  to  me." 

She  smiled ;  knocked  the  ash  off  her  cigarette  with  a  re- 
flective little  finger. 

"You  strike  me  as  an  extraordinarily  interesting  person. 
You're  very  gifted.  Very.  You've  got  no  end  of  feeling. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  107 

I  can  imagine  you  as  coming  through  with  something  like 
power.  You've  got  fancy,  too.  Delicacy.  I  love  the  way 
your  mind  works,  about  some  things.  And  then,  all  at  once, 
you  get  Victorian.  As  about  this  money.  .  .  .  By  the 
way,  I  brought  in  fruit  and  things.  And  I'll  make  coffee. 
We'll  have  a  nice  little  supper,  by  ourselves.  And  I'll  come 
in  in  the  morning  and  get  your  breakfast.  We'll  have  great 
fun.  Quite  a  little  honeymoon." 

She  caught  the  way  his  eyes  opened  sharply  and  fixed 
themselves  on  something  outside  the  window.  That  was 
enough  of  that  strain. 

She  started  humming;  got  some  of  her  things  out  of  the 
closet. 

"I'll  just  run  up-stairs  with  these,"  she  said  briskly. 
"Then  I'll  come  back  and  fix  the  supper.  I  got  some  grape- 
fruit. They're  fine  now." 

"It — it's  costing  a  lot,"  said  he,  miserably. 

"Please,  Hugh !" 

"I  think  maybe  I  can  get  back  to  the  office  to-morrow, 
Margie." 

"Hardly." 

"But  don't  you  see—" 

"I'm  going  up  now.    Be  down  directly." 

"Do  they— have  they — I  was  just  wondering  if  they  asked 
about  me  any." 

She  paused  in  the  doorway,  looked  back  at  him. 

"The  office  is  a  pretty  busy  place,  Hugh." 

"Yes— of  course." 

"I'm  not  sure  it's  the  place  for  you." 

"But—" 

"I  mean  just  this.  You're  wasted  there.  The  Nevus  isn't 
an  organ  of  public  opinion  and  literary  power.  It's  a  busi- 
ness enterprise.  Take  your  Maclntyre  story.  It's  the  best 
piece  of  writing  that's  ever  been  printed  in  the  paper." 

"Oh,  do  you  really—" 

"Yes.  But  they  don't  appreciate  it.  Oh,  I  do.  And  Hit- 
tie  does.  A  few.  Frank  Winterbeck  did — does.  He's  got 
brains.  Some  character,  even.  But  the  paper  hasn't  char- 


108  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

acter.  Maclntyre's  a  crook.  The  town's  rotten.  We've 
got  a  chance,  there  on  the  News,  for  real  leadership — moral, 
civic.  But  do  you  think  we'll  take  it  ?  Hardly !" 

Margie  was  near  forgetting  herself.  Conviction  rang  in 
her  voice ;  her  eyes  snapped. 

She  hurried  out. 

But  her  earnestness  had  brought  her  closer  to  Calverly 
than  her  schemes  ever  could  have.  He  seemed  to  enjoy  their 
little  supper  together.  And  she  was  quick  to  seize  the 
small  opportunity.  She  kept  herself  quiet  and  friendly. 
For  the  time  he  even  stopped  worrying  about  the  paper. 
At  least,  he  talked  more  impersonally  than  he  had  at  all 
before. 

The  next  morning,  when  she  let  herself  in,  she  was  sur- 
prised to  find  him  up  and  dressed. 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  explained,  a  thought  defiantly.  "Silly 
to  be  staying  here,  babying  myself.  I — I  can't  tell  you  how 
kind  you've  been.  But  .  .  ." 

"It  won't  hurt  you  to  try  a  little  walk." 

"I'm  going  to  the  office." 

"That's  impossible." 

"No,  really     .     .     ." 

"Try  it  around  the  block  once.  You'll  be  surprised  to 
find  how  weak  you  are." 

He  stood  over  her,  spread  his  hands.  She  glanced  up  at 
him,  then  away.  She  found  him  deeply  attractive.  But  it 
wouldn't  do  to  show  it.  It  never  did. 

"It  doesn't  matter  particularly  how  weak  I  am,"  he  was 
saying.  "Surely  you  see  that  I  can't — well,  go  on  like  this." 

His  thin  hands  were  moving  to  include  the  little  apart- 
ment, her  apartment. 

"Anyway,"  she  remarked,  "we  need  some  breakfast." 

While  she  busied  herself  about  this,  he  walked  the  floor. 
His  look  was  that  of  a  man  who  fights  himself,  struggles 
to  rouse  himself. 

She  found  some  difficulty  in  making  talk  over  the  break- 
fast. The  very  intimacy  of  their  surroundings  weighed  on 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  109 

both.  At  the  end  of  the  meal  she  found  herself  no  nearer  a 
plan  for  handling  him. 

He  looked  about  the  room ;  prowled  in  the  little  hall. 

"What  is  it  ?"  she  called,  quickly,  nervously. 

"I  was  looking  for  my  hat.    Perhaps  it's  up-stairs." 

"It  is.    I'll  get  it." 

He  put  out  a  hand  to  detain  her ;  but  she  pressed  by  him. 

"Just  once  around  the  block,  mind,"  she  commanded,  as 
she  gave  it  to  him. 

He  came  back  into  the  living-room  then ;  sat  on  the  arm 
of  the  Morris  chair;  looked  down  at  the  floor  for  a  time, 
then,  with  unexpected  frankness,  up  at  her. 

"I've  got  to  go  to  the  office,"  he  said.  "Can't  you  see, 
Margie?  You're  so  good — you're  wonderful — but  I've 
got  to." 

"I  simply  won't  let  you." 

"I'm  sorry.  Perhaps  it  isn't  sensible.  But  it's  all  I've 
got — work.  It's  the  only  thing.  I've  got  to  go." 

"Then," — said  she. 

"What?"   He,  too,  was  quick,  nervous. 

"Well — it  had  to  come,  sooner  or  later.     .     .     ." 

"What?   What  is  it?" 

She  went  to  the  bureau  in  the  bedroom. 

He  started  up  in  apprehension.  He  had  to  lean  on  the 
table. 

She  spread  out  there  the  News  of  a  week  earlier. 

"What  ?    I  don't  see  what  you  mean !" 

"The  box,  there.    The  retraction." 

He  read  it.    He  seemed  slow,  even  stupid,  with  it. 

"Well,"  said  she,  in  as  matter-of-fact  a  voice  as  she  could 
manage,  "there  it  is.  You've  got  to  know  it."  How  slug- 
gish he  was!  "You'd  better  just  sit  down.  We'll  talk  it 
over.  It  needn't  be  so  terribly  serious,  with  all  the  talent 
you've  got." 

She  wished  he  would  move. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said  again.  But  he  was  still  leaning  on 
the  table.  He  must  have  read  the  statement  through  sev- 


110  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

eral  times.  Now,  by  the  way  his  eyes  shifted,  she  could 
see  that  he  was  beginning  it  again. 

But  finally  he  lifted  his  head. 

"It's  me,  of  course — my  story,"  he  said. 

"Yes.    It's  you." 

"I'm  discharged — publicly,  that  way." 

"The  News  isn't  the  only  paper,"  she  began,  hotly. 

"Oh,  but  you  know,"  he  said — "after  this.     .     .     ." 

"But  there  are  other  cities." 

He  repeated  this  slowly  after  her,  as  if  forgetting  that 
she  was  there: 

"Yes,  there  are  other  cities."  Then  he  looked  about  the 
room  and  drew  a  hand  across  his  eyes.  "But  all  this — the 
nurse,  and  the  doctor,  and  the  food  and  all — " 

"Please!" 

"I  can't  help  it.    You  see — I'd  used  all  my  money." 

He  sank  again  to  the  arm  of  the  Morris  chair. 

"I  haven't  a  thing  of  any  value.  I — I  want  you  to  tell  me 
what  it's  all  come  to." 

"Of  course  I'll  tell  you.  It  won't  run  over  fifty  dollars. 
And  what's  that !  It  isn't  the  important  thing  now." 

She  was  trying  to  hold  herself  to  that  casual  manner. 
But  it  was  difficult. 

"You're  taking  it  hard,  Hugh.  I  don't  wonder.  It  is 
hard.  But  the  thing  now  is  to  get  you  well.  No  matter  how 
hard  it  is  for  you,  I've  got  to  do  that  first.  This  is  just  a 
problem.  Get  your  feet  back  on  the  ground,  and  you'll 
handle  it.  I'll  help  you  all  I  can — all  you'll  let  me." 

Now  was  her  moment.  She  kept  her  voice  under  control, 
but  her  color  would  rise,  and  her  eyes  were  shining  more 
than  she  knew.  She  came  gradually  closer  to  him ;  finally, 
with  a  curious  sense  of  shock  that  made  it  seem  like  a  vio- 
lent act,  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Listen!  Let's  be  sensible.  We're  not  children.  We're 
not  in  a  money-making  business.  It's  incidental — money. 
I've  got  some,  a  few  hundred.  I'm  independent.  Nobody 
can  keep  me  from  doing  as  I  like.  Let  me  help  you.  Let's 
work  it  out  together,  while  you're  getting  hold  of  things. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  111 

You're  gifted.  You're  sensitive.  Somebody's  got  to  take 
care  of  you.  We've  drifted  into  it  by  accident,  but — well,  it 
seems  to  work  pretty  well.  I'm  not  the  sort  to  make  de- 
mands. .  .  ." 

He  was  getting  up. 

Her  hand  trailed  rather  awkwardly  from  his  shoulder 
down  his  sleeve  and  caught  there,  as  she  followed  him. 

He  fumbled  at  the  knob  of  the  outer  door. 

"Don't  look  like  that!"  she  said  sharply.  "Please  come 
back.  I  can't  let  you  go  this  way." 

But  he  had  the  door  open  now. 

She  could  have  thrown  her  arms  around  his  neck ;  but 
not  here  in  the  corridor.  She  lowered  her  voice. 

"You  mustn't  go  like  this,  Henry !" 

But  he  broke  away  and  walked  swiftly  along  the  dim  cor- 
ridor and  down  the  stairs. 

She  started  after  him,  then  turned  back  to  close  the  door. 

Then,  in  the  shadows  just  beyond  she  saw  a  man,  a  portly 
figure,  and  an  unlighted  cigar  in  a  wide  familiar  face. 

She  stood  motionless. 

"Sorry,  Marge."    He  removed  the  cigar. 

White  of  face,  cold  of  eye,  she  looked  him  up  and  down. 

"Spying !"  she  said. 

"No,  Marge,  not  spying.  Looking  for  the  bell.  You 
never  made  me  look  for  it  before,  you  know.  Then  I 
heard  you,  and — well,  I  stepped  aside.  It  was  a  little  sur- 
prising." 

They  stood  there.    He  chewed  his  cigar. 

"Wanted  to  catch  you  before  you  got  down  to  the  paper," 
he  added.  Then,  "Well,  I  caught  you." 

She  drew  him  into  her  own  hallway  and  closed  the  door. 

"He's  been  ill,"  she  said.  "And  he's  down  on  his  luck. 
It's— it's  Hugh  Stafford." 

"You  called  him  Henry,  Marge." 

There  was  another  long  silence. 

"Come  in,"  she  said  then.    "He  is  Henry  Calverly." 

"Not—" 

"Yes.    It  isn't  what  you  think.    I  am  interested  in  him." 


112  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"Well,  naturally—" 

"Please  don't  be  ugly!" 

He  spread  his  hands. 

"I  see  it's  no  use  trying  to  talk  with  you,  Abe." 

"I'll  go,  Marge.  We  used  to  say,  if  a  change  came  we'd 
be  frank  about  it." 

"It  isn't  that  sort  of  a  change." 

He  turned  away,  but  not  before  she  caught  the  twist  in 
his  usually  placid  mouth. 

"Perhaps  we'd  better  not  try  to  talk  now,"  she  said. 

"Perhaps  we'd  better  not,"  said  he. 

"He  doesn't  think  I  know  who  he  is,  Abe." 

"But  you  called  him—" 

"He  doesn't  know  what  I  called  him.  He's  beside  him- 
self, Abe.  It's  pretty  serious.  If  you  don't  mind,  I'll  slip 
out  first.  I'm  sorry — sorry  you  won't — or  can't — see  this 
as  it  is.  At  least,  you  may  as  well  help  me  keep  his  secret." 

"Marge,"  he  said,  coldly  deliberate,  "you're  lying  to  me." 

"Oh,  Abe,  don't—" 

His  voice  was  rising.  "You're  in  love  with  him.  It's 
an  affair.  You're — " 

"Well,  say  I  am!  I  can't  help  it,  can  I?  You  don't  ex- 
pect me  to — " 

"But,  my  God,  Marge — " 

This  wouldn't  do.  He  was  catching  at  her  with  both 
hands. 

She  eluded  him  and  hurried  away. 

When  Abel  Timothy  walked  over  toward  Cantey  Square, 
a  few  minutes  later,  he  saw  Margie  on  a  corner  gazing 
anxiously  this  way  and  that. 


Ebb;  and  the  Turn 

CALVERLY  was  in  the  writing-room  of  the  Cantey 
Square  Hotel  until  some  time  after  noon.  He  wrote 
a  long  letter  to  Humphrey,  trying  to  explain  the  steps  that 
had  brought  him  down  to  the  final  act.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  Humphrey  was  entitled  to  know.  But  he  found  the 
explanation  difficult.  More  than  once  he  considered  tear- 
ing up  all  he  had  written  and  saying  simply  that  life  had 
proved  too  strong  for  him.  The  trouble  with  that  sort  of 
note  was  that  it  was  just  the  sort  they  usually  left.  And  it 
seemed  to  him  that  his  case  was  different  from  the  others. 
This  point  he  felt  strongly  impelled  to  make  clear.  He 
wanted  Hump  to  know  that  he  was  giving  up  quietly,  in  a 
sense  sweetly.  He  was  sane;  indeed  his  perceptions,  like 
his  feelings,  seemed  keen  to  a  point  above  rather  than  below 
normal.  The  world  had  thrown  him  aside.  It  had  nothing 
for  him ;  he  had  nothing  for  it  He  had  done  his  best ; 
his  best  was,  it  seemed,  peculiarly  the  thing  that  was  not 
wanted.  His  solitude  had  finally  become  intolerable. 

His  feelings  surged  high.  He  wanted  Hump  to  know — in 
some  words  or  other  he  must  make  it  clear — that  he  ad- 
mired and  loved  him.  He  thought  with  a  curious,  almost 
impersonal  tenderness  of  Mary  Maloney.  He  finally  wrote 
to  her — a  friendly  note,  wishing  her  luck,  urging  her  to 
make  a  job  of  it.  She  was  a  dear  little  thing;  his  heart 
ached  for  her.  He  even  had  to  struggle  with  a  capricious 
impulse  to  see  her  again  before.  .  .  .  She,  alone  out 
of  all  the  world,  had  brought  him  a  touch  of  human  warmth. 

He  didn't  want  Hump  to  know  of  the  money  Margie  had 
spent.  So  he  wrote  direct  to  Mr.  Guard  about  that,  not 
caring  what  Guard  might  think.  It  was  rather  wonderful 
not  to  care.  These  pretensions,  these  conventions,  didn't 

113 


114  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

matter  now.  He  asked  Mr.  Guard  to  pay  her  the  first  fifty 
dollars  that  might  come  in  on  account  of  royalties,  and  then 
turn  whatever  might  be  left  over  to  Hump.  It  wouldn't  be 
much.  Royalties,  even  on  Satraps  of  the  Simple,  had 
dwindled  of  late  years  nearly  to  nothing. 

He  wandered  out  then;  caught  a  street-car;  rode  to  the 
river. 

The  river  had  seemed  the  thing.  He  was  taking  it  rather 
for  granted.  But  now,  as  he  leaned  on  the  bridge-rail  and 
stared  down  at  the  dimpling  current,  he  thought  less  well  of 
it.  The  temptation  might  come  to  swim  out.  And  he  didn't 
want  to  weaken.  He  might  weight  his  pockets,  of  course. 

He  wandered  on  along  the  bridge.  Beyond  the  south 
bank  it  continued  over  the  railway  yards. 

He  stopped  here.  Looked  down.  There  were  nearly  a 
score  of  tracks.  Freight  cars  stood  in  long  rows.  Porters 
and  scrub  women  were  at  work  in  and  about  the  sleeping 
and  "parlor"  cars.  Wagons  and  trucks  moved  in  and  out. 
The  two  central  tracks  were  kept  clear  for  the  passenger 
traffic  to  and  from  the  Union  Station.  A  train,  just  made 
up,  was  pushed  by  a  switching  engine  toward  the  station. 
Then,  from  the  station,  a  long,  vestibuled  train  came — one 
of  the  New  York-Chicago  through  trains — drawn  by  an 
enormous  locomotive,  gathering  head  swiftly,  roaring  under 
the  viaduct.  Calverly  stared  down  at  it ;  breathed  the  hot 
air  from  the  little  smokestack.  A  new  thought  came  to  him 
— to  jump  down  there. 

Not  now.  He  shrank  from  the  conspicuous  act.  But  at 
night.  When  the  yard  was  all  twinkling  points  of  light,  red 
and  green  and  white,  and  the  headlight  of  the  locomotive 
made  the  rails  shine,  illumined  the  precise  spot.  It  would 
be  quick,  sure.  A  good  way. 

A  bitter  exaltation  was  rising  in  him  now.  But  it  wasn't 
the  old  feeling.  Three  years,  two  years  ago — even  a  year — 
he  would  have  killed  himself  for  Cicely,  to  be  with  her. 
Now — subtly,  curiously — there  were  other  considerations. 
The  fact  stood  out  that  when  he  was  thinking  only  of  Cicely, 
however  great  his  suffering,  he  had  never  come  down  to  it. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  115 

He  hadn't  touched  bottom ;  not  quite.  He  was  going  now 
because,  .having  lost  something  of  Cicely,  something  of  his 
vivid  memory  of  her,  nothing  had  come  to  take  her  place. 
Because  they  hadn't  liked  his  best  work  on  the  News — the 
work  that  had  brought,  for  a  few  thrilling  moments,  the  old 
stir  and  sense  of  godlike  power;  though  not  because  they 
had  discharged  him.  That  seemed  incidental.  No,  because, 
as  he  wrote  Humphrey,  he  had  offered  his  best,  and  his  best 
wasn't  wanted.  It  had  been  his  last  great  effort.  After  four 
awful  years. 

"A  fellow's  got  to  have  a  little  success,  once  in  a  while," 
he  muttered  no\v. 

He  decided  on  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening;  for  no  reason 
that  he  knew  of.  It  seemed  a  good  hour.  The  Chicago 
Flyer  left  the  station  then,  and  would  reach  the  viaduct 
within  two  or  three  minutes.  If  it  wasn't  late.  Though 
that  wouldn't  matter.  He  would  wait. 

With  his  eyes  he  marked  the  precise  spot,  directly  over 
the  west-bound  track.  He  decided  to  let  himself  over  the 
railing,  and  drop  carefully,  so  as  not  to  miss,  just  as  the 
locomotive  was  reaching  the  farther  side  of  the  viaduct.  Of 
course,  if  people  were  near,  he  might  have  to  wait  for  a 
later  train.  That  would  be  a  matter  of  luck ;  one  way  or 
the  other. 

He  wandered  back  into  the  city ;  rested  a  while  on  a  bench 
in  a  west  side  park,  playing  with  the  squirrels.  He  picked 
up  a  mid-afternoon  meal  in  a  convenient  Buffalo  Lunch. 

At  eight  o'clock  he  went  to  his  rooms.  Margie  was  sure 
to  be  at  the  office  then.  He  put  on  a  clean  collar  and  his 
better  tie ;  and  brushed  his  suit  and  his  shoes. 

He  found  the  key  to  Margie's  rooms  in  his  pocket ;  con- 
sidered sealing  it  in  an  envelope  addressed  to  her  and  leav- 
ing it  here  on  the  table.  They  would  find  it.  It  seemed 
hardly  to  matter.  People  in  the  building  assumed,  of  course, 
that  they  were  living  together.  Others  in  the  building,  for 
that  matter,  were  pretty  clearly  in  the  same  boat. 

He  reconsidered ;  took  the  key  down-stairs ;  listened  at 
her  door;  let  himself  in;  laid  the  key  on  her  table;  looked 


116  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

about  with  a  sudden  choke  in  his  throat.  She  had,  after  all, 
been  extraordinarily  kind.  His  eyes  filled.  It  seemed  as 
if  he  weren't  treating  her  well.  Of  course,  he  hadn't  harmed 
her.  In  little  ways  she  had  painstakingly  made  it  clear  that 
he  couldn't  harm  her,  that  he  mustn't  feel  responsible  for 
her.  She  knew  that  a  decent  man  shrinks  from  assuming 
responsibility  for  a  woman  if  he  can't  carry  it  through.  And 
Calvery  had  sensed  her  attitude.  It  was  one  of  the  things 
about  her,  paradoxically,  that  repelled  him.  He  shrank  from 
the  subtle  signs  she  unconsciously  gave  out  of  experience, 
experience  with  men. 

He  walked  the  streets  for  a  time ;  then  looked  at  his  watch. 
It  was  twenty-five  minutes  to  nine.  Nearly  an  hour  and  a 
half.  Time  was  dragging  now. 

Girls  walking  by  twos  and  threes  in  the  shadows  of  these 
back  streets,  giggled  as  they  brushed  by  him.  He  watched 
them,  thoughtfully,  wondering  how  it  would  seem  to  laugh. 

He  leaned  against  a  lamp  post.  He  certainly  wasn't 
strong  yet. 

He  thrust  his  hands  into  his  coat  pockets  and  found  the 
letters  there.  It  occurred  to  him  that  they  might  be  de- 
stroyed with  him.  He  hesitated  over  leaving  them  at  his 
rooms,  as  over  mailing  them.  He  decided  then  to  take  off 
his  coat ;  leave  it  on  the  viaduct. 

His  fingers  settled  on  a  crumpled  bit  of  paper,  and  drew 
it  out. 

He  straightened  it ;  held  it  up  to  the  light. 

It  was  the  Chicago  cashier's  check  for  twenty  thousand 
dollars. 

He  stared  at  it. 

It  would  be  a  godsend  to  somebody.  It  didn't  occur  to 
him  to  offer  it  to  Margie  as  he  had  to  Mary.  That  was 
a  different  case.  What  had  Parker  written?  .  .  .  "It 
would  be  better,  if  you  feel,  on  reflection,  that  you 
can  not  accept  it  for  yourself,  to  give  it  to  some  deserv- 
ing charity."  .  .  .  Parker  was  right.  The  money  must 
be  put  to  some  use.  He  grew  excited  about  this;  took  to 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  117 

talking  very  fast,  thinking  hard,  muttering.  There  was  no 
one  he  could  consult.  Oh,  he  might  send  it  to  Hump. 

Then  he  thought  of  Mr.  Listerly;  and,  as  he  considered 
him,  bent  his  steps  toward  the  News  building.  I  don't  think 
he  dwelt  at  all  on  Mr.  Listerly  as  the  man  who  had  dis- 
charged him,  publicly,  in  that  craven  retraction.  There  was 
no  resentment  in  him.  He  saw  the  publisher  now  simply  as 
an  older  man,  a  man  of  wide  business  experience  who  was 
kindly  enough  in  manner ;  was,  in  fact,  accessible.  And  he 
went  up,  without  a  personal  thought,  to  the  editorial  floor. 

The  girl  at  the  switchboard  said  that  Mr.  Listerly  would 
see  him  in  a  few  minutes.  He  sat  on  one  of  the  benches. 
Others  were  sitting  there. 

The  stoutish  real  estate  editor — the  name  was  something 
like  Timothy — came  out  of  the  publisher's  office,  started  and 
stared  at  him,  removed  his  unlighted  cigar,  then  recovered 
himself  and  went  out  without  a  word. 

It  was  depressing  to  wait. 

The  minute  hand  on  the  big  electric  clock  in  the  hall 
moved  up  to  the  hour;  came  slowly  down  the  other  side  of 
the  dial. 

Calverly  calculated  that  it  would  take  about  fifteen  min- 
utes to  catch  a  car  and  reach  the  viaduct.  He  ought  to  be 
there  by  ten  sharp.  He  had  waited  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  now.  It  was  depressing. 

Mr.  Listerly  came  out  now,  hat  on,  stick  in  hand,  hurry- 
ing toward  the  elevator.  He  had  forgotten. 

Calverly,  confused,  rose.  The  switchboard  girl  called  Mr. 
Listerly's  attention  to  him. 

"Oh !"  remarked  the  chief.  "Oh,  yes,  Stafford— er— How 
are  you !  You  wished  to  see  me  ?" 

"Well — if  I  might— for  a  moment.     .     .     ." 

Mr.  Listerly  glanced  up  at  the  clock ;  led  the  way  into  his 
office ;  sat  on  a  corner  of  his  desk,  leaving  his  caller  standing. 

"It's  only  this,"  that  young  man  managed  to  say.  "I 
thought  maybe  you  could  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Listerly  studied  the  check ;  turned  it  over ;  looked  up 


118  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

with  a  flicker  of  interest  in  his  tired  eyes.  Money — actual 
ready  cash — could  always  stir  his  blood.  It  was — he  felt 
this  profoundly,  unconsciously;  would  have  been  honestly 
puzzled  by  an  apparently  opposite  point  of  view — the  one 
natural  preoccupation  of  all  human  life.  If  you  hadn't  it 
you  worked  for  it ;  when  you  had  it  you  worked  with  it. 
Possession  of  it  meant  real  superiority  in  either  one's  self 
or  one's  forerunners.  It  flowered  not  only  into  power  and 
standing  but  also  into  culture  and  beauty.  It  was  the  warm 
arterial  blood  of  civilization. 

"This  is  a  good  deal  of  money,  Mr.  Stafford." 

"I  know,  and  that's  why  .  .  .  It's  no  good  to  me  you 
see.  ...  I  thought  maybe  you'd — " 

"I  don't  see  why  it's  no  good  to  you." 

"Oh,  well,  there  are  personal  reasons.  I  don't  want  it. 
But  I'd  hate  to  think  of  it  not  being  used  in  some  way." 

"Naturally."  Mr.  Listerly  kept  his  face  straight.  He  was 
nonplussed.  But  with  that  check  actually  in  his  hand  he 
couldn't  wholly  conceal  his  interest. 

The  young  man  glanced  hurriedly  at  his  watch. 

"I've  only  got  a  minute,  Mr.  Listerly.  But  I  wondered — 
isn't  there  some  deserving  charity  here — you  know,  some 
place  where  they  do  things  for  children,  or  a  hospital  that 
.  .  .  suppose  I  just  endorse  it,  and  you  can — " 

"Just  a  moment,  Mr.  Stafford.  Do  have  a  chair.  We 
must  think  this  over  carefully." 

"I  really  haven't  much  time." 

Mr.  Listerly  smiled  now  ;  put  his  hat  and  stick  away.  His 
interest  was  rising.  The  control  of  twenty  thousand  dollars 
was  no  small  matter.  They  would  think  more  of  him  over 
at  the  Cantey  National;  or,  for  that  matter,  at  the  City 
Trust  Company,  by  way  of  extending  his  personal  influence. 

"Are  you  really  determined  to  give  this  money  away, 
Mr.  Stafford?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I  can't  touch  it.  But  I'd  like  it — you  know — 
to  do  some  good." 

"Of  course  there  are  institutions  enough  that  need  money. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  119 

One  occurs  to  me — the  plan  for  a  public  bath  for  children. 
With  this—" 

"That  would  be  all  right    Let's  do  that  1" 

"With  this  amount  in  hand  it  would  be  easy  enough  to 
raise  the  balance.  We  might  offer  it  conditionally  on  the 
giving  of  an  equal  amount.  Full  credit  would  be  given  you, 
of  course,  Mr.  Stafford.  For  that  matter  we  could  easily 
arrange  to  put  your  name  on  the  building — carve  it  in  the 
stone — " 

"Oh,  no,  no !  I  can't  have  that !  My  name  mustn't  appear 
at  all."  He  looked  again  at  his  watch.  It  was  twenty  min- 
utes to  ten.  "I  must  go.  Let  me  endorse  it  to  you." 

"But  I  can  hardly  let  you  do  that.  Don't  you  see  that 
you'll  be  putting  the  money  in  my  hands  without  any  check 
on  the  use  of  it." 

"But  you'll  use  it  for  the  baths.  I  have  your  word  for 
that." 

Mr.  Listerly  looked  up  at  the  wall ;  chewed  his  mustache. 
In  that  curious  moment  he  decided  that  Guard  was  right. 
The  boy  was  a  genius.  Something  must  be  done  about  him. 

"No,"  he  said,  gravely  and  kindly,  "I'm  afraid  we  can't 
do  it  quite  so  offhand.  It's  possible,  of  course,  if  you  still 
feel  that  you  don't  want  to  appear  in  it,  after  you've  thought 
it  over — " 

Henry  interrupted  now.  He  was  on  his  feet,  glancing 
toward  the  door,  nervously  fingering  his  hat  brim.  The  un- 
expected note  of  kindness  in  the  publisher's  voice  had 
touched  him,  shaken  him. 

"I  liave  thought  it  over !"  he  cried. 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do.  You  keep  the  check 
now.  To-morrow  I'll  take  you  around  to  the  bank" — Mr. 
Listerly  was  not  above  picturing  himself  there,  dwelling  a 
moment  on  the  offhand  manner  he  would  use;  it  was  a 
pleasant  thought — "and  we  can  arrange  to  put  it  by  on  a 
special  account  while  the  plans  are  maturing — " 

It  was  a  quarter  to  ten. 

"No!"  cried  Henry.    "No!  No!   I  can't.    You  don't  un- 


120  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

derstand!"  His  voice  shook  with  emotion.  He  bit  his  lip; 
glanced  nervously  about;  suddenly  snatched  up  a  pen  and 
wrote  his  name  across  the  back. 

"There !"  he  cried.  "Just  do  good  with  it,  that's  all.  Help 
somebody !"  And  turned  to  go. 

Mr.  Listerly  sprang  up  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Stafford,"  he  said,  "you're  in  trouble.  Unless  I  miss  my 
guess  you  need  help  yourself.  Some  sort.  Tell  me  this — 
Have  you  any  other  money  ?" 

"No !"  muttered  the  young  man,  struggling  away. 

"Have  you  work — plans  ?" 

"No — no  work.    I  don't  want — need — " 

The  hand  on  his  shoulder  was  firm,  strong.  It  was 
friendly,  like  the  voice.  It  was  unnerving.  He  thought — 
until  this  moment  he  hadn't  weakened — "I  can't  go  like  this. 
Have  to  catch  a  later  train.  It'll  be  all  the  same."  And  sat 
down. 

It  was  hard  to  evade  Mr.  Listerly's  keen  questions.  And 
the  warmth  that  his  voice  and  the  touch  of  his  strong  hand 
had  stirred  in  Henry's  heart  spreading  through  his  thoughts, 
fanned  by  his  own  swift  imagination,  brought  confusion;  in 
which  the  publisher,  could  he  have  known  the  glowing  im- 
age of  himself  that  was  rapidly  growing  up  in  the  thoughts 
of  the  pale  dispirited  young  man  who  sat  limp,  moody,  curi- 
ously difficult  in  the  leather  chair,  would  have  shared. 

In  the  end  he  agreed  to  go  to  the  bank  in  the  morning; 
beyond  that  he  was  not  to  be  known  as  a  party  to  the  trans- 
action. And  he  further  agreed  to  begin  work  on  the  bi- 
ography of  James  H.  Cantey. 

He  left  in  weak  bewilderment  His  life  had  been  saved. 
He  was  to  have  another  chance;  not  miserably  alone  this 
time,  but  with  kindly  support.  Mr.  Guard,  it  appeared  had 
great  faith  in  him.  He  found  difficulty  in  believing  it. 

He  got  out  of  the  building  without  meeting  Margie,  and 
stole  into  his  apartment.  He  couldn't  have  faced  her.  He 
slept  like  a  child,  and  slipped  out  in  the  morning,  bags  in 
band,  down  past  Margie's  door,  before  she  was  up.  He  saw 
her  morning  paper  lying  there. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  121 

He  had  refused  to  go  again  to  the  office ;  he  and  Mr.  Lis- 
terly  were  to  meet  at  the  City  Trust  Company  at  eleven. 

He  checked  his  bags  at  the  hotel.  He  would  find  quar- 
ters later,  somewhere  on  the  Hill.  They  were  paying  him 
enough.  And  he  would  put  aside  something  every  week 
toward  Margie's  fifty  dollars. 

Mr.  Listerly,  when  he  had  gone  that  night,  flopped  back 
in  his  chair ;  tapped  his  fingers  on  the  desk ;  shook  his  head. 
A  queer  case!  But  interesting — oh,  interesting!  Hitt 
would  be  disappointed.  Have  to  do  something  about  that. 
He  framed  a  note  to  the  librarian ;  then  decided  to  let  the 
thing  slip  along  and  explain  itself.  Hitt,  after  all,  had  his 
job.  And  they  couldn't  both  write  the  biography. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

The  Honorable  Tim  is  Perturbed  to  the  Point  of  Protest. 
And  Mr.  Quakers  Joins  the  Hunt 

HARVEY  O'RELL  was  on  the  Board  of  the  City  Trust 
Company.  Like  Hannibal  Simmons,  First  Vice-Presi- 
dent of  City  Trust,  he  was  an  ardent  golfer.  The  two  were 
interrupted,  while  playing  the  eighth  hole,  by  a  passing 
shower.  They  holed  out,  then  stepped  over  to  the  County 
Highway,  which  bounded  the  course  on  the  west,  and  sat 
in  a  three-walled  trolley  shelter. 

Mr.  Simmons,  who,  like  so  many  bankers  and  mathemati- 
cians, was  of  a  verse-writing,  imaginative  turn,  glanced 
about  quizzically  at  the  hundreds  of  initials  and  inscriptions 
carved  in  the  walls  and  on  the  bench,  produced  his  own 
knife,  and  set  unsmilingly  to  work  in  the  nearest  smooth 
space. 

Neatly  he  cut  out  the  letters— "H.  S."  By  way  of  em- 
bellishment he  added  a  decoration  beneath  them. 

CXRell,  who  was  not  whimsical  in  spirit,  watched  him  in 
easy  good  humor;  rather  admired  his  neatness  of  hand. 
Thus,  two  leading  citizens  occupied  themselves  during  a  not 
unpleasant  half -hour.  Then,  the  shower  over,  they  went  on 
to  the  ninth  tee. 

Mr.  Simmons,  a  little  grizzled  man,  with  the  first  horn- 
rimmed spectacles  ever  seen  in  the  city  outside  the  His- 
torical Society  Museum,  reflected,  as  he  walked,  on  the 
initials,  "H.  S."  and  on  a  coincidence  that  on  its  face  seemed 
hardly  worth  a  thought. 

"An  odd  thing,"  he  said.  "Bob  Listerly  opened  a  special 
account  this  morning.  Twenty  thousand.  It  was  a  Chicago 
cashier's  check  to  a  young  fellow  named  Hugh  Stafford." 

O'Rell  knit  his  brows  a  very  little;  then  composed  his 
face  and  walked  on.  For  Simmons  wasn't  a  man  you  told 

122 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  123 

everything  to.  He  held  quaint  notions;  for  instance,  that 
politics  was  in  some  measure  a  thing  apart,  with  which  a 
gentleman  didn't  soil  his  hands.  That  your  political  ma- 
chine might  in  reality  be  a  device,  a  buffer,  standing  between 
the  vaguely,  incoherently  excitable  mass  of  ordinary  citi- 
zens and  organized,  predatory  wealth ;  that  the  political  boss 
didn't  live  whose  power  could  be  explained  by  personal 
ability  or  even  trickery,  he  seemed  unable  to  grasp. 

Simmons  was  proud  of  his  city;  and  with  considerable 
reason.  If  the  street-cars  were  dirty,  noisy,  crowded  to 
the  bumpers  and  (on  occasion)  to  the  roofs,  he  took  them 
as  a  casual  fact  of  life  and  was  glad  that  he  had  rarely  to 
ride  in  them.  If  County  Railways  held  perpetual  fran- 
chises, for  which  it  made  no  return  to  the  community,  and 
if,  with  these  as  a  basis,  it  was  able  to  pile  bond  issue  on 
bond  issue,  stock  on  stock,  why  this,  too,  seemed  a  fact  of 
life.  Besides,  he  had  found  the  bonds  and  stocks  person- 
ally profitable.  .  .  .  Mayor  Tim  was  to  him  a  rather 
despicable  creature  whom  irresponsible  people  insisted  on 
electing  and  re-electing.  The  trouble  appeared  to  be  that 
too  many  were  allowed  to  vote.  Of  the  elaborately  organ- 
ized machinery  for  securing  the  votes  and  for  destroying 
those  of  tfie  opposition  he  knew  nothing.  It  was  simply  a 
distasteful  subject.  If  any  one  had  told  him  that  O'Rell 
(with  certain  others)  had  a  hand  in  directing  this  machinery 
he  would  have  regarded  the  assertion  as  an  insult  to  an 
able  and  high-minded  friend.  If  any  one  had  laid  before 
him  an  analysis  of  the  situation,  leading  to  the  simple  con- 
clusion that  it  is  five  times  more  profitable  to  put  up  the 
money  for  a  lax,  dishonest  city  administration  than  to  sub- 
mit to  a  sound  and  sweeping  enforcement  of  existing  law, 
he  would  have  been  pained,  but  not  convinced.  His  mind, 
keen  in  banking  routine,  clever  at  versification,  would  have 
stopped  short  of  the  necessary  general  conclusions. 

So  O'Rell  resumed  his  solidly  inscrutable  front.  And 
Simmons  talked  on : 

"This  Stafford  just  endorsed  the  check,  blank.  Bob 
wrote  his  name  on  it,  and  took  a  certificate  of  deposit.  Said 


124  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

something  about  its  being  used  toward  the  public  baths. 
An  outright  gift.  Queer.  And  the  young  fellow  is  to  write 
the  Cantey  biography,  at  thirty-five  a  week.  Seemed  glad 
to  get  it.  He  starts  working  to-morrow,  up  at  the  house,  in 
Jim's  study.  Amme  is  to  turn  over  the  papers.  We're  to 
make  the  weekly  payments  and  charge  to  the  Estate." 

O'Rell's  remark,  by  way  of  reply,  came  while  the  banker 
was  teeing  his  ball.  It  was: 

"My  guess  is  that  you'll  come  back  to  the  Conqueror  ball, 
Han.  You  certainly  aren't  getting  the  distance  out  of  those 
things." 

But  before  half  past  seven  that  evening  he  called  up  the 
mayor.  Shortly  after  eight  the  city  attorney  called  up 
Oswald  Quakers.  The  attorney  for  the  Painter  interests 
suggested  that  the  mayor  come  around.  At  ten-thirty,  say. 
After  making  which  suggestion  Quakers  called  O'Rell  and 
got  the  facts.  He  always  got  the  facts. 

The  mayor  appeared  at  ten-twenty-five.  Qualters  him- 
self opened  the  door;  and  after  one  glance  at  the  wild  per- 
son before  him,  hurried  him  back  to  his  library. 

"Better  have  a  cigar,"  remarked  Mr.  Qualters,  whose 
method  was  that  of  casual  good  humor.  "And  sit  down. 
What's  the  matter?" 

Mayor  Tim  sat  down ;  then  sprang  up.  It  was  a  moment 
in  which  he  had  to  be  on  his  feet. 

Qualters,  sensing  imminent  oratory,  lighted  his  own  cigar 
2nd  settled  back  comfortably. 

"Bob  Listerly's  double-crossed  me !"  he  cried  dramatically. 

"How  do  you  figure  that  out,  Tim  ?" 

"Well,  I  ask  you — didn't  he  agree  to  fire  that  young 
fellow?" 

"Fire  who?" 

"This  Stafford.    I  ask  you — didn't  he  agree  to  fire  him  ?" 

"My  impression  is  that  we  wrote  the  retraction  he  printed. 
And  that  stated  that  the  man  had  already  been  discharged, 
didn't  it?" 

"It  did.    But  now  see  what  he's  done.    My  God,  if — " 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  125 

"What's  he  done?"  Quakers  made  it  a  rule  always  to 
ask,  never  to  tell. 

"He's  put  the  man  in  to  write  the  Jim  Cantey  book. 
That's  what  he's  done." 

"Stafford  writes  well  enough,  Tim."     Qualters  was 
smiling. 

The  mayor  strode  impatiently  to  the  window  and  back ; 
thrust  his  fingers  through  his  hair;  sputtered  angrily. 

"Sit  down,  Tim.  Take  it  easy.  This  situation  can't  get 
away  from  us." 

"It  can't,  can't  it?  Well  it  just  has!  Look  here,  Mr. 
Qualters,  I'm  a  plain-spoken  man.  I'll  talk  to  the  point.  I 
knew  Jim  Cantey.  He  was  my  benefactor.  We  had  things 
in  common.  He  was  a  man  who  kept  a  tight  hand  on  all  his 
own  affairs.  You  know  that." 

Qualters  nodded. 

"Oh,  he  used  Amme  and  the  rest.  But  he  kept  his  own 
papers.  I  know  about  that.  There's  a  safe  up  there  in  his 
study,  on  the  Hill.  Many's  the  evening  I've  sat  there  with 
him.  Talking.  Intimate.  Like  you  and  I  are  talking  now." 
His  manner  and  voice  dropped  into  mystery.  He  moved 
closer;  shook  his  hair  back;  dropped  a  tense  hand  on  the 
table. 

Qualters  reflected — "Tim  should  have  gone  on  the  stage." 

"It's  full  of  secrets,  that  safe.  Jim  Cantey 's  own  per- 
sonal papers — business  affairs — deals  here  in  town — Har- 
vey's secrets — the  senator's — yours — mine!  .  .  ." 

His  voice  rose  to  a  climax  on  that  speech ;  lingered  dra- 
matically on  the  "yours,"  a  thought  tremulously  on  the 
"mine." 

"Stafford's  not  going  to  crack  the  safe,  Tim." 

The  mayor  threw  back  his  head ;  sighed ;  dropped  into  a 
chair. 

"I  won't  stand  for  it!"  he  muttered. 

"Well,  how're  you  going  to  stop  it?  The  choice  of  the 
biographer  was  left  to  Bob  in  the  will.  All  that  side  of  the 
Estate." 


126  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"A  lot  that's  got  to  do  with  it.  I'm  a  plain  man,  Mr. 
Quakers.  But  the  man  doesn't  live  who  can  cross  me  and 
get  away  with  it.  You've  got  the  power  to  stop  this  dirty 
game." 

"Xo,  I  haven't." 

"You  have !    You  can't—" 

"Easy,  Tim." 

"I  guess  Bob  Listerly'll  do  what  you  say,  quick  enough, 
if  you'll  really  say  it." 

Quakers  considered  this.  "After  all,"  he  said  musingly, 
"we've  made  Bob  eat  crow  once  this  week.  .  .  ." 

"Let  him  eat  it  twice  then!  I'll  teach  Bob  Listerly  he 
can't  put  it  over  me.  I  see  through  his  game  now.  The 
coward!  As  if  he  didn't  turn  this  man  loose  on  me!" 

"He  didn't.    I  happen  to  know  that." 

"They  why's  he  turning  him  loose  on  me  again." 

"How?  I  don't  quite  get  this,  Tim.  Just  why  are  you 
so  worked  up  over  the  Cantey  biography  ?" 

The  mayor  said,  "I  ain't  worked  up !"  Then,  "I  tell  you 
he's  using  that  fellow  to  hurt  me.  He  brought  him  here 
for  that!  Big  bluffer — hasn't  got  the  heart  to  fight  me  in 
the  open !" 

Quakers  smoked ;  studied  the  ceiling. 

"I  wonder  who's  got  the  combination  to  that  safe,  Tim." 

The  mayor,  gripping  the  arms  of  his  chair,  started  for- 
ward, in  open  amazement. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me — " 

"Oh,  you  think  I've  got  it?    Well,  I  haven't,  Tim." 

"You  drew  the  will." 

"No.  Wait  a  moment."  Quakers  reached  for  the  tele- 
phone; called  a  number.  "Hello!  Amme?  How  about 
this  man  Stafford  that  Bob  Listerly's  putting  in  to  write  the 
book?  Don't  know  anything  about  him?  Neither  do  I. 
Who  vouches  for  him?  .  .  .  Oh,  the  publishers.  I  see. 
Well,  tell  me,  is  he  to  work  there  at  the  house?  .  .  . 
Any  private  papers  he's  likely  to  get  into?  .  .  .  Oh, 
naturally.  Yes,  yes!  That's  good.  .  .  .  How  about 
that  safe  of  Mr.  Cantey's?  .  .  .  Hmm!  Hadn't  you 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  127 

better  take  them  out?  Might  keep  them  in  the  vault.  I 
should  think.  .  .  ."  Amme  talked  for  some  time.  Then 
Quakers  said — "Oh,  well,  that  ought  to  be  safe  enough.  An 
odd  situation.  Nothing  vre  can  do,  I  guess.  Thanks! 
Good-by!" 

"Queer,"  he  remarked,  turning  slowly  toward  his  visitor. 

"What  is?    What  is  it?    Tell  me!" 

"It's  all  right,  Tim.  Mr.  Cantey,  you  know,  made  a  con- 
fidante of  his  daughter  Miriam.  Like  all  of  us,  he  had  to 
talk  freely  to  somebody,  out  of  hours.  At  least,  he  wasn't 
careless  with  women,  like  so  many.  Certainly  not  of  recent 
years.  And  he  didn't  use  clairvoyants,  like  the  senator. 
Well,  all  his  personal  papers  are  in  that  safe — the  whole 
inside  Cantey  story.  For  either  blackmail  or  biography  it 
would  be  a  gold  mine.  But — " 

"Well,  see  here,  why  can't  Amme — " 

"Amme's  as  helpless  as  the  rest  of  us." 

"Yes,  you're  helpless !" 

"My  dear  fellow,  we  are!  Mr.  Cantey  left  the  safe  and 
everything  in  it,  along  with  the  Cummings  Avenue  prop- 
erty, to  Miriam.  He  gave  that  new  property,  on  Chase 
Avenue,  to  the  other  daughter  when  she  was  married.  But 
the  old  place  is  Miriam's,  outright.  And  she  and  her  father 
were  the  only  ones  that  ever  had  the  combination  to  that 
safe." 

Quakers  was  interested  then  in  studying  his  caller.  This 
information  was  clearly  crushing  to  him.  He  sank  back  in 
the  chair ;  his  drink-flushed  face  almost  pale.  He  seemed  to 
have  difficulty  in  breathing. 

Quakers  reflected.  It  would  be  interesting  to  know  just 
what  the  relationship  was  between  the  cheap  little  dema- 
gogue before  him  and  the  great  Jim  Cantey.  Of  course, 
there  had,  at  times,  been  rumors — rumors  that  hadn't  run 
far.  .  .  .  Tim  might  have  blackmailed  Cantey.  That 
was  understandable.  Any  big  dynamic  man  had  a  vulner- 
able spot  here  and  there.  And  Tim  would  have  struck  like 
the  cheerful  pirate  he  was.  But — and  this  was  the  really 
interesting  query.  How  could  it  have  worked  out  the  other 


128  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

•way  around?  What  could  Cantey  have  had  on  Tim  that 
the  rest  of  them  didn't  have?  .  .  .  Plainly  enough,  the 
man  was  frightened  almost  to  death. 

He  was  talking  again;  excitedly;  gathering  head  for  a 
speech: 

"It  ain't  for  myself,  Mr.  Quakers!  But  think  what  it 
means  to— to  the  city  1" 

"Of  course,  letting  an  irresponsible  young  fool  like  that — " 

"That's  it!  You've  said  it!  He's  an  irresponsible  fool. 
Who  is  he,  anyway,  I'd  like  to  know?  Where's  he  come 
from  ?  Who  knows  a  thing  about  him  ?" 

"But  Miriam  Cantey  isn't  going  to  hand  over  to  a  hired 
stranger  documents  that  would  damage  her  father's — " 

"But  they're  putting  him  right  into  the  house!  What 
if  they're  thrown  together!  What  if  she  fell  in  love  with 
him !  It's  happened  before  now  that — " 

"But  she's  an  invalid,  Tim !" 

Quakers  had  really  a  bit  of  a  time  getting  the  mayor 
quieted  and  headed  homeward.  He  kept  coming  back  to 
it ;  ranted  a  good  deal.  Something  was  certainly  in  that 
safe  that  Tim  knew  a  lot  about. 

Quakers  had  to  promise  to  take  it  up  with  Listerly.  In- 
deed, though  he  wouldn't  admit  it  to  the  Honorable  Tim, 
the  situation  was  anything  but  reassuring.  Writing  Jim 
Cantey's  biography  was  not  the  job  for  a  stranger;  too 
many  large  interests  and  current  transactions  were  inter- 
twined with  the  Cantey  properties.  They  met,  Quakers  and 
Listerly,  rather  coolly,  at  the  Down-town  Club  at  noon  of 
following  day ;  met,  in  fact,  in  the  washroom. 

"Bob,"  said  Quakers,  feeling  for  a  towel,  "Tim  feels  that 
you've  crossed  him — holding  on  to  that  man  Stafford." 

"I  discharged  him,  as  I  agreed.  He  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  paper." 

"Of  course,  I  understand — " 

"The  biography  job  came  up  from  a  wholly  different  an- 
gle. I'm  trying  him  out  there.  It  hardly  concerns  Tim." 

Quakers,  sensing  that  Bob  felt  inclined  to  make  a  stand 
on  this  point,  let  it  drop.  Now  and  then,  pressed  a  little  too 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  129 

far,  Bob  could  be  obstinate.  And  he  was  an  extremely  valu- 
able man. 

Tim  would  simply  have  to  keep  his  shirt  on  for  a  day 
or  so.  No  help  for  it.  Until  Bob  could  be  called  off.  And 
meantime,  it  oughtn't  to  be  difficult  to  put  the  Canteys  a 
little  on  their  guard.  There  was  no  immediate  danger, 
really. 

What  interested  him  more  sharply  was  the  curious  busi- 
ness of  the  check  for  twenty  thousand  dollars.  Giving  it 
away.  Tim  evidently  didn't  know  about  that.  He  himself 
had  it  direct  from  O'Rell. 

He  decided  to  look  Stafford  up.    There  were  ways. 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

Of  Ships,  a  Narrow  Door,  and  a  Young  Wotnan  in  a 
Wheel-Cliair.    Also,  Briefly,  of  Mr.  Amme 

CALVERLY  was  shaky  on  the  second  morning ;  whitely 
sensitive,  his  eyes  large  and  unusually  dark,  with  a 
blazing  light  in  them.  But  he  appeared,  promptly  at  nine,  at 
the  huge  old  Cantey  residence. 

A  man  in  livery  conducted  him  up  a  long  flight.  He 
glanced  shyly,  in  passing,  at  the  heavy  old  furniture,  the 
ornate  ceilings  and  chandeliers,  a  great  marble  mantel. 
There  were  glimpses  of  spacious  drawing-  and  dining-rooms, 
and  paintings  in  heavy  frames  with  hooded  lights  above 
them.  The  house  of  the  mayor  had  reeked  of  the  profes- 
sional "period"  decorator;  this,  on  the  contrary,  however 
confused  in  taste,  was  a  home ;  it  had  grown  up  into  mag- 
nificence with  the  rise  to  power  and  fame  of  James  H.  Can- 
tey. Comfortable  old  sofas  and  armchairs  mixed  in  on 
the  second  floor,  with  the  slimmer  chairs  and  tables  of  the 
recent  Colonial  renaissance;  an  expression,  perhaps,  these 
latter,  of  the  taste  of  the  younger  generation  of  Canteys.  Of 
these  present  Canteys,  Calvery  knew  only  vaguely.  There 
were  two  or  three  sisters;  two,  he  recalled  now,  one  mar- 
ried and  living  somewhere  on  the  Hill,  another,  an  invalid, 
gifted  in  some  way,  at  least  much  talked  about. 

James  H.  Cantey  had  been  dead  two  or  three  years.  His 
death,  like  his  life,  was  dramatic.  It  was  on  his  private 
car,  the  "Pioneer,"  coming  back  from  San  Francisco,  where 
his  daughter — the  invalid  one  (there  had  been  pictures  in 
the  papers  everywhere  of  the  girl  in  a  wheel-chair  on  the 
staging)  had  christened  his  biggest  ship,  the  Congo.  That 
ship  marked  the  climax  of  his  career.  His  railway  system 
was  built.  His  vast  fleet  of  freighters  and  liners  ranged  the 
Pacific  from  Brisbane  to  Batavia,  Singapore,  Manila, 

130 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  131 

Shanghai,  Vladivostok,  Honolulu  and  home.  He  was  dic- 
tating— to  his  secretary,  there  on  the  train — personal  notes 
of  thanks  for  the  telegrams  of  congratulation  that  had 
poured  in  on  him,  when  he  paused,  breathed  rather  hard  for 
a  moment,  reached  for  his  handkerchief,  said  something 
that  was  not  clearly  understood,  and  sank  back  in  his  chair. 
The  daughter  thus  was  with  him  when  he  died,  as  she  had 
been  with  him  much  during  his  life. 

The  servant  led  Calverly  up  another  flight.  Up  here,  in 
the  hall,  there  were  more  paintings,  but  the  several  doors 
were  closed,  excepting  one  at  the  rear,  at  which  the  man 
left  him,  saying  merely: 

"You  are  to  use  the  study,  here,  I  believe,  sir.  Mr.  Amme 
is  expected  at  any  moment." 

The  "study"  proved  to  be  a  large  room  lined  with  book- 
shelves. On  a  table  at  one  side  lay  a  pile  of  atlases.  Oppo- 
site stood  the  largest  globe  Calverly  had  ever  seen.  Be- 
hind it  was  the  black-and-gilt  front  of  a  safe.  On  either 
side  of  the  door  were  filing  cabinets  of  steel.  The  flat-top 
desk  stood  at  the  farther  end,  where  the  light  from  the 
two  windows  fell  on  it.  Between  the  windows,  above  the 
swivel  chair,  hung  a  wall  map  of  the  Pacific  General  Rail- 
way System,  such  a  map  as  might  have  hung  in  any  ticket 
office. 

But  the  feature  that  drew  Calverly  slowly  into  the  room 
was  the  line  of  model  ships  along  the  top  of  the  book-shelves. 
These  were  perfect  miniatures  of  the  Cantey  liners,  com- 
plete to  the  last  derrick  and  block,  glass  in  every  port,  shin- 
ing brass-work,  and  on  each  bridge  brass  binnacle  and 
engine-room  signals.  The  hulls  were  a  glistening  black 
with  bright  red  bottoms,  the  rails  in  natural  teak,  the  cabins, 
ventilators  and  life-boats  white,  and  the  funnels  black  with 
the  one  white  ring  between  two  red  that  marked  a  Cantey 
ship  anywhere  in  the  world. 

The  sight  of  these  ships  opened  to  Henry  Calverly,  unex- 
pectedly, the  door  of  romance  which  he  had  thought  forever 
closed  to  him.  Pie  moved  eagerly  from  model  to  model, 
studying  out  the  fine  details  of  construction,  with  delighted 


132  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

eyes.  All  the  more  famous  of  the  ships  were  there — the 
Mississippi,  the  Missouri,  the  Columbia,  the  Hudson,  the 
Amazon,  the  Yangtze,  the  Volga,  the  Congo.  He  even, 
after  a  quick  glance  back  into  the  hall,  mounted  a  chair  to 
examine  the  most  widely  advertised  of  all,  the  Congo.  With 
a  thrill  of  imaginative  interest  he  noted  the  outdoor  swim- 
ming pool,  the  tennis  court,  the  outdoor  restaurant  with  its 
tables  and  chairs  and  tiny  green  plants  in  tubs.  He  saw  it, 
with  the  quick  eye  of  his  mind,  in  some  far-away  port, 
where  brown  men  dived  from  the  boat  deck  for  silver  coins, 
and  catamarans  sailed  alongside  laden  with  golden  mounds 
of  tropical  fruits,  and  stately  junks  moved  by,  and  yellow 
merchants  spread  out  embroideries,  cloisonne  and  tortoise- 
shell.  If  his  geography  was  confused,  the  picture  was  none 
the  less  vivid. 

He  stepped  down  and  moved  circumspectly  toward  the 
desk ;  noted  the  wire  baskets  of  documents  arranged  across 
it  in  an  orderly  row  (placed  there,  very  likely,  for  himself)  ; 
dropped  into  the  swivel  chair,  stirred  by  the  thought  that 
he  was  to  sit  and  work  at  the  very  desk,  in  the  very  chair, 
where  Jim  Cantey  had  sat  and  worked — stirred  so  deeply 
that  he  surprised  himself  by  chuckling  aloud. 

Then  he  heard — or  felt — a  presence,  and  swung  around. 

Recessed  between  the  shelves  and  the  end  wall,  was  a 
narrow  door.  Beyond  it,  in  a  wheel-chair,  a  young  woman 
sat  erect,  startled.  She  was  slender,  of  medium  coloring. 
Her  hands,  resting  on  the  wheels,  were  long,  with  quick 
sensitive  fingers.  The  face  was  delicate,  yet  not  over-thin ; 
the  mouth  fine  and  sensitive,  not,  had  he  known  it,  unlike 
his  own;  the  forehead  white,  broad.  All  this  he  saw,  or 
sensed,  in  his  first  startled  look,  as  he  sensed,  though  more 
vaguely,  the  long  lines  of  the  filmy  costume  she  wore  and 
her  slim,  slippered  feet  on  the  footboard  of  the  chair;  but 
what  arrested  him,  held  him  during  that  curious  instant  be- 
fore he  could  spring  to  his  feet  with  the  confused  explana- 
tions and  apologies,  all  in  a  breath,  that  were  so  character- 
istic, was  her  coloring.  Not  of  face,  but  of  eyes  and  hair. 
The  eyes  were  bluer,  richer  in  pigment,  than  any  he  had 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  133 

ever  seen.  The  hair  was  thick,  fine,  wavy  beyond  the  possi- 
bility of  smoothing,  of  a  chestnut  brown  but  with  an  under- 
tone of  auburn  red  and  with  the  shine  of  gold  in  every 
straying,  waving  thread  of  it.  There  was,  he  saw  now,  a 
faint  tinge  of  color  in  the  face  itself ;  it  hadn't,  certainly,  the 
pinched  look  of  the  invalid;  but  framed  in  that  wonderful 
hair  and  lighted  by  those  vital  eyes,  any  but  a  ruddy,  outdoor 
coloring  would  have  seemed  white. 

He  was  on  his  feet,  murmuring  something  in  the  way  of 
an  apology. 

A  book  lay  in  her  lap,  bound  in  a  familiar  green  and  gold 
cover — his  "Hugh  Stafford"  book.  This  strangely  thrilling 
young  person  was  looking  him  up.  .  .  .  The  wall  be- 
hind her,  like  the  walls  of  the  room  he  was  in,  was  lined 
with  books.  A  desk,  by  the  window,  was  littered  with  pa- 
pers and  books.  Among  these — his  eyes  picked  it  out  un- 
erringly— was  his  other  book,  Satraps  of  the  Simple,  by 
Henry  Calverly. 

Did  she  know  ? 

It  was  a  curiously  long  moment — he,  pale,  breathless, 
leaning  on  Jim  Cantey's  desk,  that  bright  light  in  his  eyes; 
she  slowly  sinking  back  in  her  chair,  like  himself  all  eyes — 
a  moment  charged  with  electricity. 

She  said,  with  some  hesitation : 

"I  must  ask  you  to  close  the  door." 

He  shut  it  without  a  word.  Then  saw  that  the  key  was 
on  his  side,  and  opened  it  again. 

He  heard  her  catch  her  breath. 

"It's  the  key,"  he  explained.  He  was  coloring  now.  "I 
thought  perhaps  you'd  .  .  ." 

"That  isn't  necessary,"  said  she. 

But  he  fitted  it  into  her  side  of  the  door.  He  hesitated 
then.  It  was  painfully  difficult  to  shut  it  again.  He  felt 
clumsy,  stupid ;  he  was  groping  through  a  dim  mind  for 
something  to  say  that  would  leave  a  decent  impression  of 
him,  or  at  least  explain  him.  He  had  never  seen  such  hair 
or  such  eyes ;  they  reached  him  with  a  sort  of  force.  And 
the  wheel-chair  touched  him.  It  was  the  invalid  Miss  Can- 


134  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

tey,  of  course.  The  deep,  terrible  heart  hunger  in  the  man, 
that  had  tortured  him  through  simple  little  Mary  Maloney, 
and  again,  in  some  measure,  through  Margie  Daw,  rose  in 
him  now,  overwhelmed  him.  His  throat  was  dry ;  his  hands 
unsteady;  and  swimming  points  of  light  moved  in  and  out 
of  the  rim  of  his  vision.  It  was  a  spiritual  blow,  so  violent 
as  to  unnerve  him.  In  relaxing  the  bitter  self -suppression 
of  the  years  he  had  released  a  force  that  was,  he  knew  now, 
utterly  beyond  his  power  to  resist.  He  wanted  to  be  hon- 
est, to  cry  out  that  he  was  not  Hugh  Stafford  but  Henry 
Calverly,  regardless  of  consequences. 

He  couldn't  shut  the  door.  He  felt  faint.  He  sank  back 
into  Jim  Cantey's  swivel  chair,  and  covered  his  eyes  with 
his  hands. 

Her  under  lip  slipped  in  between  her  teeth ;  she  glanced 
about,  clearly  in  confusion ;  then  impulsively  rolled  her  chair 
forward  to  the  door. 

"You  are  ill?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  no.  ...  Please!  ...  I'm  sorry."  He 
managed  to  sit  up.  "I've  been  ill.  Grippe.  But  that's  over. 
I'm  very  sorry." 

"You're  Mr.  Stafford,  of  course.  I've  just  started  your 
book.  .  .  ." 

She  didn't  know! 

"It's  interesting  to  think  that  you're  to  work  on  father's 
life.  I'm  Miss  Cantey." 

"Yes,  of  course." 

''Father  and  I  were  together  a  great  deal.  That's  why  we 
^fitted  up  this  den  for  me  next  to  his,  and  cut  the  door 
.through." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  can  ever  do  this  job."  He  was  now 
utterly  naive.  It  was  one  of  the  moments  in  which  he  had 
no  reserve  at  all.  He  was  quivering  with  intense  nervous 
responsiveness,  his  emotional  self  all  exposed.  "I've  never 
tried  biography.  And  the  ones  I've  read — except  Bos  well — 
have  bored  me." 

"Of  course,"  said  she,  quoting  some  early  instructor, 
i(  'autobiography's  what  biography  ought  to  be.'  " 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  135 

She  waited  a  moment,  reflecting.  He  sat  staring  moodily 
at  the  floor.  "Father  was  wonderful.  He  wasn't  like  the 
statue  in  the  square." 

He  waved  a  hand  at  the  model  ships.  "I  feel  that.  He 
was  alive.  He  felt  those  ships." 

"He  loved  them." 

"He  created." 

"He  had  imagination." 

"Of  course — the  ships."  The  hand  waved  again.  "And 
the  map." 

"He  loved  maps." 

"I  know.  All  those  atlases.  People  with  imagination  do 
love  them.  It's  almost  a  sure  sign." 

"I  never  thought  of  that.  Perhaps  it  is.  I  believe  you're 
right." 

"If  only  I  could  have  known  him — talked  with  him — felt 
him!" 

"You'd  have  loved  him."  Her  voice  was  low  in  pitch, 
of  a  contralto  quality.  There  was  a  slight  edge  to  it  now, 
a  thrill.  He  felt  this.  "And  he  would  have  talked  to  you. 
Because  you  have  imagination,  too." 

"I  know.  That's  another  sign.  It's  the  little  men  that  are 
formal  and  cautious." 

She  gave  an  odd,  almost  self-conscious  little  laugh  at  that. 
"Cautious !  Father  was  hardly  that." 

"Now  this" —  he  waved  at  the  row  of  wire  baskets; 
and  threw  open  a  box  of  van-colored  index  cards — "all 
this!  'Shipping  and  Railroad  Activities!  Early  life  and 
struggles!  Political  Life!  Acquaintances  with  Famous 
Men!  Summary  of  Achievement!'  I  don't  know  what  to 
do  with  it.  It's  making  me  doubt  the  whole  thing — or  my 
connection  with  it.  Files!  Indexes!  System!  I've  never 
worked  that  way.  I — I'm  afraid  they've  got  the  wrong 
man." 

She  was  studying  him  intently. 

"That,"  she  said  slowly — "oh,  that's  Mr.  Amme.  He  used 
to  be  one  of  father's  secretaries.  He's  one  of  the  lawyers 
now." 


136  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"Oh,  yes,  the  man  said  a  Mr.  Amme  was  coming."  Cal- 
verly's  nervous  hand  tapped  the  desk. 

"Father  wasn't  like  that,"  said  she,  thoughtfully.  "But 
he — why  he  was  the  most  romantic  man  that's  lived  for  a 
century,  a  man  like  Columbus,  or  Cecil  Rhodes,  or  Na- 
poleon. He  had  to  use  these  careful  little  people,  of  course." 

"But  he  isn't  here,  and  they  are.  I  see  it  now.  I  know 
what  they  want — the  sort  of  nice  little  plaster  image  that 
modern  biographers  make.  And  what  earthly  good  is  it! 
Building  up  a  cheap  conventional  picture  of  a  man,  a 
wooden  thing,  all  hollow;  not  a  line  of  real  life  in  it.  Say 
a  man  has  a  big  dream — "  He  sprang  up ;  there  was  a  ring  in 
his  voice;  his  color  was  rising.  She  watched  him  with  fas- 
cinated eyes,  her  own  sensitive  face  working  in  unconscious 
sympathy  with  his  facile  changes  of  expression — "A  man 
has  a  big  dream.  He  tries  to  work  it  out.  Other  men  with 
other  dreams,  or  with  none,  try  to  block  him.  He  fights 
them.  It's  war — hot  rough  war,  with  passion  in  it,  and 
blunders,  and  disasters.  He  does  things  he  shouldn't.  He 
leaves  wreckage  behind  him.  He  sacrifices  an  outpost  here 
and  there,  and  hardly  knows  or  cares.  He  can't.  He's  too 
close  to  it.  He  couldn't  quit  if  he  wanted  to.  So  he 
fights  on.  Through  dust  and  blood.  You  know — in  a 
sense.  Maybe  there's  a  wroman  in  it.  Love.  Passion. 
Hatred.  Because  he's  got  the  fire  in  him — because  it's  war 
— he  protects  himself  with  every  trick  he  knows,  seizes 
every  advantage  he  can.  He's  got  to.  It's  primitive,  and 
strength  and  cunning  count.  Finally — after  years  and  years 
of  it — he  wins.  He's  a  victor.  And  then  his  biographer 
comes  along,  and  works  out  a  funny  little  lie  about  habits 
of  industry,  and  correctness  of  deportment,  and  the  im- 
portance of  saving  burnt  matches  while  you're  young — 
qualities  that  would  land  a  man  at  forty-five  as  a  head 
bookkeeper." 

He  didn't  seem  to  know  that  he  was  pouring  out  a  torrent 
of  eloquence,  that  he  was  utterly  fascinating. 

"And  a  man  that's  big  like  that  has  himself  to  fight.    He's 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  137 

full  of  tremendous  forces — passions  that  he  must  convert 
into  work  or  they'll  turn  on  him  and  tear  him  to  pieces.  If 
he's  a  real  man,  he  does  fight  himself.  He  turns  these  forces 
into  achievement;  gets  them  out  of  his  system;  builds  big 
beautiful  things — a  bridge  or  a  book,  a  symphony  or  a  ship 

.  .  .  and  then  his  biographer  again!  It  was  because 
he  studied  the  classics,  or  the  Bible — because  he  was  a  cau- 
tious little  person  about  pennies — because  he  never  drank 
.  .  .  God!  Likely  as  not  he  was  working  his  heart  out 
just  to  keep  from  drinking!  .  .  .  It's  the  worst  kind  of 
lying,  of  course.  Because  it  gives  a  false  picture.  The  im- 
portant thing  is  to  learn  what  life  is,  and  why.  .  .  .  It's 
the  families  that  object,  of  course.  Oh,  you  can't  blame 
them.  They're  victims  of  the  same  universal  lie.  But  it 
would  be  wonderful,  just  once,  to  find  an  honest,  brave 
family  and  get  the  truth  told!" 

He  paced  down  the  room  and  back. 

Her  slim  fingers  were  gripping  nervously  the  wheels  be- 
side her. 

"Wait !"  she  cried,  in  a  radiant  eagerness,  "I've  something 
to  show  you.  Father  would  have — It's  in  the  safe  there" — 
she  wheeled  forward — "I  can't  get  through,  but  I  must  show 
you — It's  sheer  Providence  that  a  man  like  you  should 
come — "  She  caught  her  breath ;  gave  a  quick  little  laugh 
that  might  have  been  clear  excitement. 

He  was  staring  at  her  chair,  that  was  just  too  wide  for 
the  door. 

Far  off  an  electric  bell  sounded. 

Their  eyes  met. 

There  were  men's  voices,  faint,  far  below. 

"Mr.  Amme !"  she  breathed. 

The  men  were  coming  up-stairs. 

"I'll  close  the  door,"  he  said. 

She  wheeled  back  without  a  word. 

Mr.  Amme  was  small,  precise  in  feature,  in  dress,  in 
movement.  He  was  almost  completely  bald ;  the  entire  top 
of  his  head  was  a  glistening  dome.  His  graying  beard  was 


138  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

trimmed  to  a  point.  Between  his  brows  was  a  permanent 
furrow.  He  extended  his  hand,  a  thought  briskly,  without 
smiling.  Calverly's  heart  sank  as  he  took  it. 

The  man's  voice  was  dry  and  small. 

"I  have  arranged  my  digests  of  the  principal  departments 
of  Mr.  Cantey's  life  in  these  six  baskets,  Mr.  Stafford.  You 
will  doubtless  have  your  own  method,  but  these  will  serve 
as  a  guide  at  the  start.  I  have  had  a  selection  made  of  all 
correspondence  that  seemed  of  value  under  the  various 
heads,  which  you  will  find  in  the  two  steel  files  by  the  door, 
alphabetically  arranged,  by  writers.  The  cross  index  of 
general  subjects  is  in  this  box."  He  indicated  the  colored 
cards. 

"Like  the  public  library,"  thought  the  younger  man, 
raguely. 

"You  understand,  of  course,  Mr.  Stafford,  that  any  cleri- 
cal assistance  you  may  require  will  be  provided.  You  have 
only  to  call  me  at  the  office." 

Again  their  hands  met.  Each  considered  the  other  dur- 
ing a  sober  moment. 

Calverly  broke  away. 

"I — I — "  he  began  falteringly ;  then  picked  up  with  this — 
"I'm  not  much  good  at  all  this  business — "  he  waved  a  nerv- 
ous hand — "filing — indexing.  I  guess  I'll — oh,  well,  I'll 
just  have  to  fumble  at  it  in  my  own  way.  You  know  I'm 
really — " 

On  what  he  really  might  be  his  mouth  clamped  shut ;  and 
he  colored. 

The  pucker  deepened  between  Mr.  Amme's  brows.  His 
beard,  or  the  chin  beneath  it,  set  disapprovingly.  What  a 
dry,  hard  little  man  he  was ! 

"You  will  naturally  use  your  own  method,"  he  said. 
"Good  morning."  And  he  walked  out,  neatly,  firmly. 

Calverly  followed  irresolutely ;  stood  fingering  the  door- 
knob, listening  to  the  sound  of  his  heels  on  the  stairs,  stood 
until  the  street  door  faintly  slammed ;  then,  suddenly  all 
alive,  all  blazing  again,  shut  himself  in  and  hurried  back  to 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  139 

the  narrow  door  in  the  recess.  He  reached  up  to  knock; 
faltered  ;  turned  away ;  turned  back,  and  tapped. 

She  answered  rather  faintly.  He  opened  the  door.  She 
looked  up  with  a  quick  brightening.  The  "Hugh  Stafford" 
book  lay  just  as  it  had  in  her  lap;  she  hadn't  stirred,  really. 

"I — "  he  began,  "I — you  said  you  wanted  to — " 

"Yes  1"  she  cried.  The  chair  was  rolling  forward.  "It's 
in  the  safe.  I  can't  get  through."  She  glanced,  doubtfully, 
toward  the  hall  door. 

"Could  I—" 

Her  eyes,  like  his,  were  overbright ;  the  low-pitched  voice 
was  none  too  steady. 

"Father  used  to  put  me  in  that  big  chair,  by  the  safe — " 
she  was  explaining  quickly,  confusedly.  "It  was  my  regu- 
lar place — He  told  me  everything — Nobody  knew  the  com- 
bination but  us  two ;  nobody  but  me  now — They've  tried 
to  get  it."  She  laughed  a  little.  "You  see — I  have  to  open 
it—" 

He  was  looking  from  her  chair  to  the  safe  and  back. 
Suddenly  the  color  rushed,  red,  into  his  face. 

"I  could— I  could—" 

"You  see,  if  I—" 

"I  could  carry  you  in." 

"Father  always  carried  me.    We  were  wonderful  friends." 

"If  you—" 

His  soul  was  stepping  out  now,  across  a  line.  He  lifted 
her — she  was  so  unexpectedly  light — and  placed  her  in  the 
big  chair,  very  gently. 

Neither  spoke.    He  could  hear  himself  breathing. 

She  leaned  hurriedly  toward  the  safe.  He  could  hear 
the  roll  of  the  lock,  and  the  clicks.  He  stood  straight,  head 
thrown  back,  and  looked  up  wildly,  exultantly,  at  the  ro- 
mantically perfect  model  of  Jim  Cantey's  master  product, 
the  Congo,  on  the  bookcase. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

In  Which  Jim  Cantey  Speaks  from  live  Grave;  and  Calverly 
Finds  that  He  Has  Got  to  Carry  Miriam  Back 

HIS  gaze  came  slowly  down  from  the  model  ship.  He 
was  trembling  with  emotion ;  more  than  a  little  fright- 
ened at  the  discovery  that  his  feelings  could  slip  so  unex- 
pectedly and  so  far  out  of  control.  Mary  Maloney  was  but 
a  passing  memory  in  this  uprush  of  feeling.  Of  Margie 
Daw  he  thought  not  at  all.  He  wras  thinking,  "I  mustn't 
carry  her  again.  But  what  can  I  do?  She'll  have  to  get 
back,  somehow.  ...  I  must  be  natural.  I  mustn't 
stand  here  like  this.  But  I  can't  look  at  her !  I  can't !" 

The  discovery  that  she  wasn't  looking  at  him  made  it 
easier.  She  was  leaning  over  the  arm  of  the  big  chair, 
trying  to  reach  the  things  in  the  safe.  The  inner  compart- 
ments were  stuffed  with  documents,  many  of  them  yellow- 
about  the  edges.  There  were  packets  of  letters;  piles  of 
manila  folders  full  of  papers ;  a  heap  of  old  note-books. 

What  hair  she  had !  It  had  loosened  a  little  when  he  car- 
ried her.  The  glint  of  red  in  it  was  stronger  now.  Hardly 
aware,  he  moved  a  step  to  get  the  light  on  it.  He  was  striv- 
ing to  remember  her  eyes  .  .  .  vivid,  blue  .  .  . 
stirring  eyes.  In  only  a  moment  he  had  lost  the  feeling  they 
gave  him.  He  knew,  blindly,  that  he  would  have  to  see 
them  again.  .  .  .  And  she  seemed  so  fragile;  she  had 
felt  so  light  in  his  arms ! 

She  sank  back  in  the  big  chair ;  wan. 

He  sprang  forward ;  dropped  on  one  knee  by  the  safe. 

"The  top  three  or  four  of  the  folders,"  she  said,  low  of 
voice,  a  little  breathless.  "And  some  of  the  books.  Just  let 
me  have  them." 

He  put  them  on  her  lap.  She  picked  out  one  of  the  note- 
books at  random ;  handed  it  to  him,  without  lifting  her  eyes. 

140 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  141 

It  was  dog-eared;  the  old  red  leather  was  worn  and  curved 
from  long  wear  in  a  pocket. 

Glad  of  any  small  activity  to  cover  the  thumping  of  his 
heart,  he  turned  the  pages ;  then,  in  a  moment,  forgot  him- 
self. The  book  was  a  part  of  an  alert,  highly  colored  per- 
sonality. The  bold  hand,  the  rough  pencil  sketches  of 
faces,  the  diagrams,  apparently  of  business  problems,  the 
columns  and  groups  of  figures,  estimates  of  this  or  that,  the 
curious  bits  of  writing  (much  of  this  scratchy,  as  if  done  on 
a  moving  train) — confessions  apparently,  or  attempts  to  jot 
down  a  personal  philosophy — all  this  was  like  a  picture  of 
a  mind.  You  could  feel  the  human  pulse  in  it.  It  smelt 
of  a  man. 

"Father  would  have  liked  to  write,"  he  heard  her  say- 
ing. She  was  fingering  the  papers,  still  looking  down. 
"Some  of  the  notes  in  these  books  were  for  his  autobi- 
ography." 

"Then  he  meant  to  write  that  himself?" 

She  smiled  faintly. 

"Oh,  yes.  There's  a  lot  of  it  here — oh,  disconnected  notes 
and  beginnings  of  chapters.  It  would  have  made  a  stir. 
You  see,  he  was  determined  to  tell  the  truth.  His  friends 
were  frightened  about  it.  That's  why,  when  you — what  you 
said  about  biography  and  life — except  that  father  couldn't 
express  himself  quite  as  you  do,  it  was  almost  like  having 
him  here  again.  It  startled  me.  That's  why  I — "  She 
stopped,  caught  her  breath,  drew  her  delicate  under  lip  in 
between  her  teeth.  She  glanced  up  uncertainly  then  at  the 
note-book  he  held;  moved  her  hands  as  if  to  replace  the 
papers  in  the  safe;  hesitated  again;  looked  toward  the  nar- 
row doorway  and  her  wheel-chair,  waiting  just  beyond. 

He  didn't  see.  He  was  stalking  about  the  room  now,  de- 
vouring the  book. 

"Here !"  he  cried,  so  abruptly  that  she  started.  "Here  you 
have  it !"  And  read  aloud,  "  'We're  moral  cowards,  of 
course,  we  Americans.  We're  governed  through  our  preju- 
dices and  our  fears.  Any  really  unprincipled  crook  can  rule 
us,  if  he's  clever.  By  a  kind  of  blackmail.  We're  none  of 


142  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

us  what  we  pretend  to  be.  Life  isn't  what  we  want  to  think 
it.  I  never  could  see  much  in  the  fallen  angel  theory,  any- 
way. We  were  never  angels.  We  were  animals.  We're 
animals  yet,  struggling  up.  But  we  daren't  let  on.  The 
smart  man  sees  what  we  are,  winks  at  it,  talks  copy-book 
buncombe.  What  we're  afraid  of  is  that  he'll  give  us  away, 
give  life  away.  We  can't  have  that. 

"  'If  we  could  be  honest  with  ourselves,  all  of  us,  for  one 
day,  a  lot  of  the  trouble  in  life  would  fall  away,  I  think.  If 
we  could  let  on,  just  for  that  one  day,  that  we're  struggling 
animals,  tortured  by  a  vision  of  something  higher  and  finer 
than  the  animal,  every  one  of  us  guilty — downright  guilty — 
of  occasional  sin,  why,  the  crooks  that  flourish  now  wouldn't 
have  a  leg  left  to  stand  on.  Take  a  cheap  little  rascal  like 
Tim  Maclntyre — he  lives  by  blackmailing  me.  Because  I, 
like  the  others,  put  a  high  price  on  reputation,  Tim  thrives. 
And  I  let  him  go  on  robbing  a  whole  cityful  of  hardwork- 
ing people.  That's  part  of  the  price.'  " 

Calverly  looked  at  her  now.  She  felt  that  he  hardly  saw 
her.  He  was  flushed ;  his  eyes  shone. 

"Fine  big  man!"  he  cried.    "Saw  right  into  things!" 

Calverly  didn't  see  the  hand  was  now  unquestionably 
reaching  for  the  book. 

"  'Yes,  I'm  afraid,  too,'  "  he  read  on.  "  'Because  I  know 
that  the  rank  and  file  can't  stand  the  truth.  I  wonder  how 
it  would  work  to  be  honest  with  children.  Could  they  stand 
it?  Custom,  tradition,  are  powerful  things.  But  on  the 
other  hand,  I  find  it  hard  to  believe  that  lies  are  sound 
things.  We  don't  find  them  much  use  as  governing  princi- 
ples in  business.  Suppose  I  were  to  bring  the  girls  here 
into  my  study  and  explain  to  them  that  Tim  runs  and  robs 
the  city  because  I  can't  bear  to  hurt  them.  .  .  .'" 

Calverly,  at  this,  came  to  himself. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  simply ;  and  brought  her  the  book. 

She  let  it  drop  on  the  others  in  her  lap ;  pressed  a  hand  to 
her  eyes. 

"You're  tired,"  he  said,  very  gently. 

"No.     Oh,  I  am,  of  course,  but  that  isn't  what  it  is.     I 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  143 

was  trying  to  think.  I  don't  quite  know  how  we  got  where 
we  are.  But  since  we  have.  .  .  ."  She  was  looking 
swiftly  through  one  of  the  folders. 

"Maclntyre  meant  something  like  that,  of  course,"  said 
he,  "when  he  told  me — how  did  he  put  it  ?  Oh,  'I've  got  a 
toe  in  the  crack  of  the  Cantey  door.  That's  where  I  was 
smart,  twelve  years  ago.'  " 

"Timothy  Maclntyre  said  that  to  you?" 

"Yes.  I  was  interviewing  him.  But  they  didn't  put  that 
part  of  it  in  the  paper.  He  was  drunk." 

Her  head  drooped  now.    She  fingered  one  of  the  papers. 

"I'm  trying  to  think,"  she  said.  "It  seems  to  be  rushing 
along  faster  than  I — still — Oh,  well,  I'm  going  to  show  you 
this." 

It  was  a  half-sheet  of  paper,  dated  six  years  earlier. 

"Father  wrote  out  the  statement — " 

"Yes,  I  can  see  it's  in  his  hand." 

"And  made  Mr.  Maclntyre  sign  it." 

"I  hereby  acknowledge  the  receipt  on  this  day,  of  ten 
thousand  dollars  ($10,000.00)  in  cash  from  Harvey  O'Rell, 
General  Manager  of  County  Railways,  paid  me  as  a  bribe, 
in  return  for  which  sum  I  agree  to  veto  the  Mergenthal 
Three-Cent-Fare  Bill  passed  this  day  by  the  City  Council. 

"Timothy  J.  Maclntyre." 

Calverly  whistled. 

"There  are  some  others.  Mr.  Maclntyre  knew  one  thing 
about  father — " 

"Yes,  I—" 

"And  father  simply  decided  to  get  the  whip-hand.  He 
told  me,  before  he— -died." 

She  watched  him  as  she  said  this,  a  nervous  alertness, 
almost  an  eagerness,  in  the  blue  eyes. 

Then  she  pressed  on — he  found  her  bewilderingly  direct 
now ;  unquestionably  there  was  in  her  a  strain  of  the  fight- 
ing Jim  Cantey — with  this  : 

"And  here's  something  else  I  want  you  to  read,  since 
we've  :  ." 


144  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

The  document  was  in  a  long  envelope,  addressed : 

"To  my  daughter  Miriam,  Not  to  be  opened  until  after 
my  death. — James  H.  Cantey." 

"Read  it !"  she  said,  in  that  same  low,  breathless  way. 
"It's  an  elaboration  of  the  other.  Father  hated  hypocrisy." 

It  was  written,  with  many  crossings-out  and  interlinings, 
in  the  now  familiar  hand : 

"My  Dear  Girl,"  it  ran,  "I've  just  finished  Phil  Hem- 
ming's  autobiography.  You're  asleep  now.  The  nurse 
thinks  I  am.  But  this  book  has  stirred  me  all  up.  And  I 
find,  as  so  often  these  last  few  years,  I  turn  to  you.  I  want 
to  talk  to  you.  I  can  do  it  this  way,  perhaps,  with  a  pen. 
I  don't  seem  to  have  the  courage  to  say  these  things  by 
word  of  mouth.  Yet  I  hate  to  go  leaving  them  unsaid.  The 
end  is  very  near,  little  girl — nearer  than  you  know. 

"About  Phil  Hemming's  book.  From  cover  to  cover  the 
thing  is  one  huge  lie.  In  the  first  place  it  isn't  his.  He 
hired  a  fellow  to  write  it.  That's  the  way  it's  usually  done, 
you  know.  The  only  true  statements  in  it  are  the  dates  of 
his  birth  and  marriage.  Phil  was  a  drunkard,  but  had 
the  physique  to  last  through  forty  years  of  it  and  come 
out  with  something  left.  He  was  a  thief — he  stole  the 
Summervale  Western  through  a  legal  trick,  and  then 
bought  the  judge  that  settled  the  case  in  his  favor.  That 
transaction  broke  old  H.  T.  Delancey,  wrecked  the  family, 
robbed  something  over  two  thousand  stockholders. 

"He  says  he  dropped  out  of  Pacific  Lines  in  '86  because 
of  ill  health.  That's  true,  in  a  funny  way.  He  was  drunker 
than  usual  that  year.  And  he  was  seriously  entangled  with 
women.  That  he  pulled  out  of  it  somehow  and  went  along 
in  Wall  Street  and  lived  to  make  another  fortune  and  give 
three  millions  to  Hemming  University  before  he  died  and 
six  millions  more  afterward  is  due  not  to  moral  stamina  but 
physical.  He  was  crooked  to  his  last  breath. 

"Reading  this  poor  stuff — the  book  is  all  rigged  up  to 
make  you  think  Phil  the  kind  of  correct  person  everybody 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  145 

wants  to  be  thought — makes  me  wonder  about  other  auto- 
biographies and  biographies.  It  makes  me  wonder  about  a 
lot  of  the  famous  figures  of  history.  It's  clear  to  me — I've 
known  great  statesmen,  business  leaders,  others — that  they 
were  none  of  them  what  people  think.  You've  got  to  turn 
to  the  Old  Testament,  Shakespeare,  Benvenuto,  St.  Simon 
and  Machiavelli  to  realize  the  human  drama  and  the  stuff 
men  and  women  are  made  of.  Reading  Phil's  mess  of  lies — 
written  by  a  hired  hand — I  turn  with  a  good  deal  of  affec- 
tion to  Benvenuto  and  Machiavelli.  They  were  honest  men. 
They  didn't  lie,  they  told  what  happened,  as  they  saw  it.  If 
only  we  could  all  do  that,  we'd  come  a  lot  closer  to  a  work- 
able understanding  of  life. 

"Take  my  own  experience.  And  God  knows  I've  had  a 
lot  of  that !  Business,  as  I've  found  it,  is  lawless,  cruel. 
It's  warfare  in  which  the  shrewdest  and  strongest  survive. 
Men  are  tricked,  crushed,  sometimes  murdered  outright. 
Governments — municipal,  state,  national — are  confused,  cor- 
rupted, sometimes  virtually  destroyed.  It's  a  cynical,  hard- 
headed  fight  to  a  finish,  a  battle  royal.  Political  government 
isn't  much  more  than  a  superstition  anyway,  nowadays.  La- 
bor is  slavery — we  admit  it  when  we  speak  of  the  labor 
market.  It's  no  way  to  build  a  nation — to  do  that  you've 
got  to  breed  for  sound  citizenship,  organize  for  it — but  it's 
a  cruel  beautiful  game,  all  the  same.  Like  war.  And  I 
guess  this  country  can  stand  it  for  another  fifty  years  or  so. 
Until  the  land  is  settled  thicker,  and  the  limits  of  our  nat- 
ural resources  come  in  sight.  Then,  I  suppose  it'll  become 
some  kind  of  socialist  state,  but  for  the  present,  while  the 
going's  good,  no  power  on  earth  can  stop  it.  Law  ?  That's 
mostly  what  the  judges  make  it.  And  business — our  na- 
tional habit,  our  work,  our  energy,  our  main  concern — 
breeds  the  judges.  Congress?  That's  only  a  place.  And  a 
place  can't  stop  anything,  or  start  anything.  It's  where  the 
hired  men  of  the  great  business  forces  meet  and  fight  to 
neutralize  one  another.  They  can't  tell  me  anything  about 
Congress.  I've  put  too  many  hired  men  in  there  myself. 
House  and  Senate.  Government  isn't  a  force,  anyway.  It 


146  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

isn't  a  cause  of  anything.  It's  a  result.  It's  a  focus  of  na- 
tional forces,  economic  and  sentimental.  That's  all  I  can 
see — forces,  with  strong  men  riding  them,  perhaps  manag- 
ing to  steer  them  a  little,  more  often  dragged  along  by  them. 
These  forces  gather,  focus,  in  two  places,  at  Washington  and 
in  Wall  Street. 

"I've  tried,  so  many  times,  these  last  few  years,  to  write 
down  what  I  think,  or  feel,  about  all  this  puzzling  business 
— the  whole  business  of  living,  really.  I've  wanted  to  tell 
just  what  my  experience  has  been.  You  know.  We've 
talked  about  that.  In  a  way,  of  course,  my  experience  ought 
to  be  interesting.  This  business  of  developing  and  organiz- 
ing a  continent  has  been  one  of  the  most  interesting  things 
in  the  history  of  man.  It's  all  happened,  really,  since  the 
Civil  War,  forty  years.  And  I've  had  a  hand  in  it.  But  to 
save  my  soul  I  don't  know  what  value  my  experience  can 
have  if  I'm  not  to  be  allowed  to  tell  it.  I  certainly  would 
be  no  good  as  an  imaginative  writer.  The  facts,  yes — I 
know  some  of  those!  They'd  be  valuable,  too,  if  only  as  a 
study  of  the  human  critter  riding  forces  that  are  too  big 
for  him.  But  if  whitewash  is  what  they  want,  they  can 
get  it  out  of  a  pail.  Or  from  Phil  Hemming.  I  can't  give 
it  to  them,  that's  sure ! 

"It's  been  thrilling,  you  see,  like  war.  But  looked  at  close 
to,  it's  every  bit  as  ugly  as  war. 

"These  reformers  that  have  sprung  up  so  thick  lately,  at- 
tacking all  our  business  leaders — everybody  who's  won  a 
few  fights  and  made  a  little  money — they're  right  enough, 
as  far  as  they  really  go.  Oh,  they  get  most  of  their  facts 
wrong,  but  still  they're  right  enough.  Things  are  every 
bit  as  bad  as  they  say.  The  trouble  comes  when  they  try  to 
solve  a  problem.  They  all  leave  the  ground  there — go  right 
up  in  the  air.  I've  tried  to  work  with  them,  you  know. 
I've  had  scores  of  them  speaking  in  our  railway  yards  dur- 
ing the  noon  hour,  and  in  both  the  eastern  and  western  ship- 
yards— all  over  the  place.  After  some  years  of  listening  to 
them  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  they  haven't  much  to 
contribute.  They're  gadflies.  Perhaps  they're  stimulants. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  147 

Perhaps  they'll  finally  prove  to  be  really  destructive  forces. 
Though  I  doubt  that.  As  far  back  as  I've  read,  there's  al- 
ways been  about  so  many  reformers  to  the  thousand  of 
population.  They're  always  found,  through  history,  in  about 
the  same  attitude,  saying  about  the  same  thing  in  the  lan- 
guage of  their  particular  time.  About  three-eighths  of  one 
per  cent,  of  any  people,  any  time,  are  reformers,  I  should 
say. 

"The  trouble  with  this  present  lot,  I  think,  is  that  they 
mistake  the  man  for  the  force  he's  riding.  They  attack  the 
man,  and  let  the  force  alone.  Now  and  then  they  even  do 
for  the  man,  but  they  never  stop  the  force.  The  deep  laws 
of  nature  work  on  regardless.  And  it's  just  luck — they 
never  know — whether  the  man  they  kill  is  a  smart  devil 
gambling  with  the  forces  or  a  constructive  leader.  At  that, 
the  crook — I  mean  the  man  whose  personal  motives  are 
crooked — may  be  the  man  more  than  any  other  that  is  steer- 
ing or  combining  forces  in  a  way  that  will  help  everybody. 
And  the  man  with  the  best  personal  motives  may  be  work- 
ing the  deepest  harm.  History  seems  to  record  that  Louis 
XI  was  the  builder  of  Modern  France,  a  strong  king;  but 
he  certainly  was  a  crook. 

"I'm  not  so  optimistic  as  I'd  like  to  be  about  the  whole 
game.  I  think  you  know  pretty  well  how  I  feel.  It  comes 
down,  with  me,  to  something  near  fatalism.  I  can't  follow 
the  reformers,  or  the  religious  fanatics,  or  any  of  the  talk- 
ers, because  they  always  seem  to  me  to  run  off  into  sheer 
opinion,  or  dogma,  or  some  other  place  in  the  air.  You 
know  in  modern  business  we  don't  care  much  about  dogma 
— traditions  of  any  kind — or  about  assertions  of  opinion. 
We  can't.  We're  digging  all  the  time  for  facts — for  new 
facts,  and  evidences  of  change  in  the  old  ones.  Such  opin- 
ions as  we  do  indulge  in  we  draw  from  such  facts  as  we  can 
get  hold  of. 

"That's  the  attitude  I've  been  trained  to,  the  only  attitude 
I  have.  That's  why  I'm  so  nonplussed  over  this  matter  of 
the  autobiography.  The  facts  aren't  wanted.  And  they're 
all  I  have  to  offer.  As  a  people  we  shrink  from  the  facts 


148  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

about  life  and  living.  We  live  in  a  curious  sort  of  play 
world — make  believe.  Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that  we're 
going  to  come  down  some  day  with  an  awful  bump.  For 
we're  up  in  the  air,  seventy  millions  of  us.  And  you  can't 
stay  in  the  air.  Not  very  long,  as  history  runs. 

"Take  my  life  now.  I  could  no  more  open  up  every  hour 
of  it  to  the  inspection  of  innocent  boys  and  girls  than 
George  Washington  could,  or  W.  E.  Gladstone,  or  Henry 
V,  or  any  political  bishop,  or  Robert  Bruce.  There  are 
queer,  strong  strains  in  my  nature,  queer  spots  in  my  his- 
tory. Yet  I  know  that  I'm  certainly  not  below  the  aver- 
age, as  life  runs.  I've  not  been  a  life-long  drunkard,  like 
Phil  Hemming.  I've  never  been  out-and-out  weak  with 
women,  like  a  certain  very  eminent  man  who  has  been  con- 
sistently lied  about  in  history.  I've  not  been  a  sniveling, 
cruel  little  beast,  like  old  Louis.  I've  taken  hard  blows  and 
I've  given  them.  The  moments  of  passion  or  weakness  (I 
don't  know  what  to  call  them)  have  been  incidents.  Yet 
any  one  of  them — the  Anna  Maclntyre  story,  for  instance — 
I'm  going  to  tell  you  about  it  shortly — would,  in  the  falsely 
trained  public  mind,  outweigh  a  whole  lifetime  of  conscien- 
tious hard  work  and  some  fairly  solid  achievement. 

"Even  so,  I'd  rather,  on  the  whole,  they  knew  it.  Because 
it's  been  a  factor  in  my  life.  There's  been  a  restlessness  in 
me,  and  a  passionate  sort  of  bruskness.  They've  called 
me  rough.  I've  been  a  dreamer,  too.  All  my  life  I've  been 
torn  between  the  two  tendencies.  As  a  boy,  I  felt  the  strug- 
gle. That's  why  I  held  myself  down  to  school  and  college 
— it  was  a  deliberate  act  of  will.  Perhaps  it's  why  I've  been 
such  a  reader.  But  we  are  what  we  are.  It  works  out. 

"Certain  things  I've  done.  I  put  the  Pacific  lines  to- 
gether after  Phil  Hemming  wrecked  them,  and  built  up  the 
system.  It  took  sixteen  years. 

"That  I  did. 

"And  I  built  up  the  Cantey  Line.  I  put  the  flag  back  on 
the  seas.  You'll  never  know  what  a  fight  it  was,  or  the 
punishment  I  had  to  take  from  '93  to  '95.  It  was  awful.  I 
paid  a  good  many  prices  for  the  Cantey  Line,  one  way  or 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  149 

another,  gave  hostages  to  fortune.  There  was  bitter,  ugly 
righting.  I  was  unjust  to  some  men.  I  crushed  others.  I 
couldn't  stop  without  facing  destruction  for  myself  and  for 
the  men  who  had  stood  by  me,  so  I  went  on.  They  called 
me  ruthless.  I  was. 

"That  success  turned  my  head.  I  went  into  politics, 
landed  in  the  Senate.  You  thought  that  an  honor.  Esther 
is  prouder  of  it  to  this  day  than  of  anything  else.  She  likes 
to  think  of  herself  as  the  senator's  daughter.  Well,  dear, 
I  bought  the  senatorship.  It  was  weakness,  vanity. 
Worse,  it  was  a  mistake.  I  stepped  out  of  my  game  into 
theirs.  They  set  traps  for  me  and  nearly  got  me.  It  be- 
came necessary  to  build  up  a  strong  political  machine  at 
home  here.  I  did  it,  paying  a  lot  more  prices.  By  that  time 
I  despised  myself. 

"After  your  mother's  death  I  struggled  a  little,  now  and 
then,  with  drink.  And  there  were  several  women  in  my 
life.  I  didn't  care  for  them,  but  there  they  were.  I  won't 
try  to  build  up  excuses.  You  are  to  have  the  truth  now. 
I've  lost  faith  in  everything  else. 

"One  of  these  women  was  a  trap,  Anna  Maclntyre.  Her 
brother  was  a  cheap,  crooked  little  lawyer.  He  blackmailed 
me  through  her.  He  is  our  mayor  now,  because  of  it.  He 
has  used  me,  I've  used  him. 

"And  then,  just  about  as  I  was  groping  out  of  this  dark 
period,  came  your  accident.  It  shook  me  to  the  roots  of  my 
life.  The  thought  that  you — you  were  the  most  beautiful 
child  I  ever  knew,  and  the  gayest  and  brightest — could  never 
hope  to  walk  again  seemed  more  than  I  could  bear.  But  it 
brought  me  up  standing.  When  your  mind  runs  back  over 
all  your  dreadful  suffering,  at  least  remember  that.  It 
brought  me  up.  God,  how  I've  clung  to  you,  how  I've  leaned 
on  you !  I've  kept  you  with  me,  built  the  special  car  for 
you  just  so  I  could  keep  you  with  me.  You  know  some- 
thing of  what  these  few  wonderful  years  of  our  companion- 
ship have  been.  But  you  couldn't  possibly  know  all  they've 
meant  to  me.  For  they  brought  me  out  of  the  wilderness. 
I  cut  clear  of  the  political  mess  and  plunged  back  into  my 


150  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

own  work,  the  only  work  for  which  I  was  fitted,  building 
up  the  Cantey  Line,  solidifying  the  railroad  system,  and 
knitting  them  more  closely  together.  After  finally  coming 
back  to  my  senses  I  was  frightened  at  seeing  how  far  the 
old  organizations  had  drifted.  And  strong  young  men  were 
coming  on  to  fight  me.  There  was  barely  time  to  get  a 
fresh  grip.  I  want  you  to  know  that  it  was  you — your  fresh 
clear,  young  mind,  your  sympathy  and  faith — that  saved  me 
and  all  of  us. 

"I've  had  luck.  I  must  have  started  with  gifts  and  op- 
portunities above  the  average.  And  few  men  began  with 
such  a  wife  as  mine  or  ended  with  such  a  daughter. 

"Now  about  the  biography.  Some  day  we're  going  to 
study  human  life  as  we  study  plants  and  animals  and  stones. 
We'll  dig  for  the  facts,  and  weigh  them,  and  construct  new 
dogma.  It  will  be  better  than  the  old  dogma.  For  a  while, 
anyway.  It  will  clear  out  this  present  growth  of  hypocrisy. 
Once  we  come  to  admit  a  few  truths  about  life,  about  char- 
acter, once  we  puncture  for  good  and  all  this  bubble  of  hu- 
man perfection,  it  will  at  least  be  harder  for  scoundrels  to 
rule  us  and  rob  us  through  blackmail. 

"So,  if  you  feel  that  you  can,  have  them  tell  the  truth 
about  me,  Miriam.  I've  got  to  leave  the  decision  with  you 
now.  But  if  you  do  try  it,  don't  for  a  moment  forget  that 
they'll  fight  like  rats.  They'll  see  it  means  telling  the  truth 
about  them,  too.  Don't  let  Amme  have  a  hand  in  it,  or 
O'Rell,  or  those.  Perhaps  Listerly  would  help.  I  tried  to 
put  the  idea  before  him  one  night  on  the  train,  going  to 
New  York.  He  seemed  then  to  sense  what  I  meant.  He's 
cautious,  shrewd,  a  trimmer.  But  he's  not  hard  shell,  like 
the  others.  His  mind's  fairly  flexible. 

"Perhaps  there  is,  somewhere  in  the  English-speaking 
world,  a  man  who  can  write  fearlessly  and  sympathetically. 
Sympathy  there  must  be.  Real  understanding.  For  I've 
not  been  a  bad  man,  as  men  go.  And  I  don't  want  the  hypo- 
crites to  get  off  so  easily. 

"It  must  be  a  man  with  power,  and  with  great  detach- 
ment of  mind.  No  hack  could  do  it 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  151 

"I  couldn't  lay  this  before  Esther.  She'd  fight  us,  too. 
No,  as  it  stands  now,  with  the  thing  still  unwritten,  you're 
the  only  person  in  the  world  that  I  can  be  honest  with.  An 
odd  reflection  on  life,  isn't  it!  And  we  talk  so  much  about 
honesty !  Too  much !  We  haven't,  as  a  people,  a  glimmer 
of  the  true  meaning  of  the  word. 

"Am  I  too  brusk  with  you,  dear  girl  ? 

"I've  leaned  on  you  so     .     .     ." 

Calverly  lowered  the  paper. 

She  was  lying  back  in  the  big  chair,  her  cheek  on  her 
hand.  There  was  moisture  in  the  blue  eyes. 

He  came  slowly  toward  her ;  with  a  curious,  sudden  touch 
of  awe  in  his  heart,  laid  the  document  on  the  heap  of  other 
papers  in  her  lap. 

"You  can  see,"  she  said,  trying  to  smile,  "why  I  was — 
well,  what  you  said —  It  rather  swept  me  off  my  feet — be- 
cause, well,  it  was  what  father  .  .  ." 

"I  would  give  anything  in  the  world,"  he  began ;  then 
paused,  reddened,  leaned  back,  confused,  against  the  desk ; 
thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets. 

"You're  the  man,  of  course,"  she  said  now.  "It  was  the 
last  thing  he  asked  of  me." 

"But  you  don't  know  me  well  enough.  You  don't — 
you  see  .  .  ." 

She  moved  a  hand,  wearily.  "The  surface  things  don't 
matter.  You  said  it.  Before  you  read  this.  The  identical 
thing.  Of  course  you're  the  man." 

"I  wonder  if — if  the  surface  things  don't  matter,"  he 
breathed,  staring  up  at  the  ships. 

"No.  They  don't.  You  must  do  it — for  me  and  for  him. 
Just  as  he  asked." 

"We  must  think.    All  these  other  people.     .     .     ." 

"I  know.  Up  to  now  I've  felt  pretty  helpless.  I  was  so 
alone.  But  you've  come.  You  can  do  it.  I  don't  want  to 
think  of  consequences,  all  that.  I  want  his  wish  carried  out. 
Because  it  was — well,  his  faith." 

"He  was  a  great  man." 


152  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"I  felt  that  you  would  know  that.    He  was." 

Calverly,  his  eyes  shining  now,  looked  down  at  her. 

"You're  very  tired,"  he  said. 

"Yes.  It's  been  pretty  stirring.  And  I'm  not  strong" — 
this  with  a  touch  of  impatience.  "I  must  .  .  ."  She 
glanced  toward  the  door  and  the  wheel-chair. 

His  eyes  followed  hers. 

She  colored,  and  bit  her  lip. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  must  go  back." 

"I — if  you  don't  mind — I'll  have  to  carry  you     .     .     ." 

She  lay  back  for  a  long  moment  with  closed  eyes. 

Then,  with  an  abruptness  that  startled  him — it  was  the 
Jim  Cantey  strain  in  her  again — she  began  replacing  the 
papers  in  the  safe.  He  helped  with  this ;  then  pushed  the 
steel  door  to  for  her,  and  spun  the  knob. 

And  then — teeth  set,  pulse  racing,  the  hot  color  suddenly 
flooding  cheeks  and  temples — hesitating  a  little,  hesitating 
too  long,  he  bent  to  pick  her  up. 

She  raised  a  hand. 

"It's  understood?"  she  asked,  a  note  of  timidity  in  her 
voice  that  he  found  unnerving.  "You'll  write  it  as  he 
wished." 

"I'll  try,"  he  said  huskily,  and  took  her  hand. 

"It's  understood?"  she  asked  again. 

"Yes     .     .     .     it's  understood." 

Then  he  lifted  her  and  carried  her  back  to  her  chair.  And 
her  hair  brushed  his  cheek. 

He  stood  over  her. 

"There's  one  thing  I  must  tell  you,"  he  began  hotly. 

"Please!"  she  breathed.  She  couldn't  look  up  at  him 
now.  "I'm  sorry — I  must  rest." 

He  sank  down  in  Jim  Cantey's  swivel  chair ;  stared  at  the 
narrow  door  that  he  had  closed  on  her;  sprang  up  and 
rushed  toward  it ;  came  slowly  back ;  sat  again,  staring  now 
at  the  row  of  wire  baskets  set  out  so  neatly  by  Mr.  Amme ; 
and  then  dropped  his  head  on  his  arms  and  sobbed. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

How  Mr.  Guard's  Stenographer  Went  to  Coney  Island  Sat- 
urday Evening.    And  How  Miss  Russell  Picked 
Up  Ten  Dollars 

THE  talk,  that  evening,  between  Quakers  and  Amme, 
was  in  the  Quakers  home.  Amme  was  well  away  before 
Mayor  Tim  came. 

Amme  was  disturbed. 

"Oswald,"  said  he,  when  the  study  door  was  safely  closed, 
"what  was  on  your  mind  yesterday  when  you  called  up 
about  this  fellow  Stafford?" 

"Nothing  much.     Cigar?" 

"Xo,  thanks.    What  do  you  know  about  him?" 

"Nothing  at  all." 

"Nor  I.    What  does  Bob  know?" 

"Hardly  more,  I  think.  We've  got  to  go  a  little  easy  with 
Bob." 

"Yes,  I  know,  but—" 

"The  publishers  pressed  him  on  Bob.  Guard  and  he  are 
old  friends." 

"Then  they  know." 

"Possibly.    They  published  a  book  he  wrote." 

"Can't  we  run  him  down  there?" 

"I'll  take  it  up.     Have  you  talked  with  the  man?" 

"A  little,  this  morning." 

"How'd  he  impress  you?" 

"Very  badly.    Utterly  incompetent,  I  should  say." 

"Hardly  that.    He  can  write." 

"I  know,  but  he's  irresponsible.  .  .  .  See  here,  Os- 
wald, hadn't  we  better  lay  the  situation  frankly  before  Bob? 
Really,  we  ought  to  know  a  little  something  about  the  man." 

Quakers  meditated ;  shook  his  head.  "No,  let's  not  talk 

153 


154  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

to  Bob.  We'd  just  ruffle  him  more.  Leave  it  to  me  for  a 
few  days." 

"Yes,  but  meantime  there  he  is,  with  access  to  a  consider- 
able part  of  the  correspondence." 

"You  went  through  it  first,  of  course?" 

"Oh,  yes.  But  there  are  leads,  here  and  there,  among  the 
business  letters — " 

"Which  an  utterly  incompetent  man  would  hardly  have 
the  brains  to  follow  up." 

"True  enough.  I  suppose  we  needn't  feel  hurried.  At 
best  a  man  could  spend  weeks — months — reading  the  things 
I  set  out  for  him.  But  can  you  keep  Tim  Maclntyre 
quiet?" 

"Tim  hasn't  been  to  you?" 

"Yes." 

Quakers  frowned. 

"One  thing,"  he  remarked,  casually — "when  does  Miriam 
come  into  the  property?" 

"She  has  the  house  and  contents  now." 

"Yes,  but—" 

"Oh,  the  whole  thing,  you  mean?" 

"Yes— Cantey  Estate." 

"On  her  twenty-fifth  birthday — October  sixth." 

"Next  October?" 

Amme  bowed. 

"We've  got  time  enough  to  turn  around,  then.  Who  are 
the  other  trustees  ?" 

"Besides  myself?    Harvey  O'Rell  and  Bob  Listerly." 

"Esther  gets  only  cash,  doesn't  she  ?" 

"And  securities.  About  a  third.  Mr.  Cantey  figured  on 
her  husband  doing  a  bit  of  the  providing." 

A  little  later,  when  he  had  again  carefully  closed  the 
study  door,  he  turned  sharply  on  the  flushed,  slightly 
drunken  mayor. 

"Tim,  I  told  you  to  keep  your  shirt  on." 

"Now,  see  here — " 

"Don't  talk  that  way  to  me!    I'm  attending  to  this  little 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  155 

matter  at  the  Canteys'.  I  don't  want  you  running  around 
talking!" 

"Really,  Quakers— " 

"Drop  that  bluff,  Tim!  You've  been  to  Amme.  Stop  it! 
Keep  still!" 

"But  that  fellow—" 

"I'm  attending  to  that.  I'm  going  to  New  York  to-night. 
You've  got  to  keep  quiet.  Don't  go  around  reminding  peo- 
ple of  the  contents  of  that  safe,  or  you'll  have  'em  look- 
ing it  up." 

"See  here!"  The  mayor  was  on  his  feet,  standing  over 
the  quietly  smoking  Qualters ;  his  voice  rising  to  an  oratori- 
cal pitch;  a  tremulous  forefinger  waving  high.  "What  do 
you  know  about  the  contents  of  that  safe?  I'd  like  you  to 
understand — " 

"Sit  down,  Tim.  I  know  more  than  you  think.  Let  me 
see  if  I  can  make  you  understand  this.  Responsible  busi- 
ness men  aren't  in  the  habit  of  telling  their  daughters  of 
their  little  personal  weaknesses.  And  invalid  young  ladies 
aren't  given  to  studying  business  documents." 

The  mayor  here  spoke  in  a  surprisingly  sensible,  if  de- 
jected tone.  He  even  sat  down  to  it. 

"Mr.  Cantey,"  was  his  remark,  "was  honester  than  the 
rest  of  us,  and  more  outspoken.  He  gave  that  girl  the  com- 
bination of  the  safe.  And  God  knows  what  he  didn't  tell 
her!  That's — that's  why  I'm  scared,  Qualters." 

"But  why  didn't  you  stop  at  a  little  blackmailing,  Tim? 
Couldn't  you  let  well  enough  alone  ?" 

"How  could  I  help  it,  I'd  like  to  know?  It  was  years 
later.  And  Anna  had  to  go  and  get  married.  Where  was 
I  then  ?  Tell  me  that !  She  had  a  reputation  of  her  own  to 
look  out  for.  And  he  saw  it.  He  had  me." 

"But  at  that,  you  needn't  have  put  it  in  writing." 

"Oh,  I  needn't!"  Mayor  Tim  sprang  up  again.  "A  lot 
you  know  about  it.  I'd  like  to  have  seen  you  face  him 
down.  I  had  to  have  the  money.  Anna  was  stinging  me 
hard  then.  She's  never  let  up  on  me.  And  there  we  were, 


156  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

in  Mr.  Cantey's  study.  He  stood  over  us — wrote  it  out  with 
his  own  hand.  Told  me  to  sign  or  he'd  break  my  damned 
neck,  and  he'd  have  done  it." 

"But  couldn't  the  two  of  you — " 

"Would  you  have  had  us  kill  him?  Jim  Cantey?  I  tell 
you,  Quakers,  he  had  us!  Why  Harvey — " 

He  stopped  short.  His  mouth  sagged  at  the  corners,  his 
eyes  bulged,  his  breath  went  short. 

Qualters  had  risen.  Perhaps  he  hadn't  heard.  He  was 
going  through  some  papers  on  his  desk. 

"I've  got  to  make  the  ten  o'clock,  Tim.  Be  glad  to  talk 
longer  with  you,  but  not  to-night." 

Qualters  had  several  important  conferences  and  a  direc- 
tors' meeting  or  two  to  attend  in  New  York ;  but  he  found 
time  to  take  up,  in  his  quietly  offhand  way,  the  Stafford  mat- 
ter. Not  wishing  to  appear  in  it  himself,  he  first  called  up 
the  manager  of  a  detective  agency  that  had  done  much  work 
for  the  Painter  interests,  and  later  took  a  friendly  news- 
paper publisher  into  his  confidence.  The  publisher  passed 
the  query  along  to  his  "literary  editor."  An  "operative" 
from  the  detective  agency  took  Guard's  stenographer  to 
Coney  Island  on  the  Saturday  evening. 

Meantime  Harvey  O'Rell  found  occasion  to  remark  to 
Hannibal  Simmons  that  an  outright  gift  to  the  city  of 
twenty  thousand  dollars  on  the  part  of  an  unknown  young 
man  who  was  glad  to  pick  up  a  hack  literary  job  at  thirty- 
five  a  week  had  a  queer  smell.  Fishy.  Might  easily  be 
that  there  were  papers  in  Jim  Cantey's  study  that  the  Pa- 
cific Northeastern  people  or  the  enterprising  group  that  had 
lately  bought  into  the  Middle  Seas  Line  would  give  a  for- 
tune to  get  hold  of.  Might  even  be  blackmail  along  some 
new  and  clever  line.  And  on  a  large  scale.  It  would  be 
rather  interesting  to  know  a  little  more  about  that  check. 
Thirty-five-dollar-a-week  men  weren't  commonly  philan- 
thropists. 

He  changed  the  subject  there.  But  Simmons,  his  curios- 
ity stirred,  started  an  inquiry  of  his  own.  It  was  rather 
delicate;  he  couldn't  press  it  far.  But  he  was  able  to  inform 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  157 

his  friend,  on  the  Saturday,  that  the  man  Stafford  had  no 
account  in  the  Chicago  bank  that  drew  the  check  to  him. 
So  far  as  could  be  learned  he  had  no  bank-account  at  all ; 
certainly  none  here  in  the  city. 

Mr.  Amme  took  the  matter  up  with  Will  Appleby,  Esther 
Cantey's  husband.  This  at  the  Town  Club,  over  the  high- 
balls. Will  had  fairly  large  manufacturing  interests,  down 
along  the  river. 

"It's  a  bit  awkward,  Will,"  he  said.  "In  a  way  the  mat- 
ter of  the  book  was  left  in  Bob's  hands.  But  he  shouldn't 
have  gone  ahead  and  put  a  man  actually  in  there  without  so 
much  as  consulting  the  other  trustees.  He  was  touchy  over 
the  row  with  Tim  Maclntyre." 

"But  who  is  this  fellow  ?" 

"That's  what  we  can't  find  out.  Except  that  he's  the  man 
that  wrote  the  Maclntyre  story  in  Bob's  paper.  A  complete 
stranger." 

"And  Bob  has  put  him  in  there?  Turned  him  loose  in 
Mr.  Cantey's  study?" 

Mr.  Amme  bowed. 

"But  that  can't  be !  That  book  is  a  job  for  an  old  friend, 
or  at  least  for  a  tactful  man,  known  to  the  family.  Bob 
spoke  once  of  old  Hitt.  .  .  ." 

"One  would  naturally  look  for  some  one  like  that.  We're 
a  bit  worried.  For  one  thing  he's  young.  And  presentable 
enough,  in  a  way.  An  out-and-out  adventurer,  clearly. 
Now,  with  Miriam  there  in  the  .  .  .  this  thought  has 
occurred  to  me.  Couldn't  Esther  persuade  her  to  take  a 
trip?  Run  over  to  England,  say.  The  sea  air  would  be 
good.  And  it  would  give  us  time  to  get  hold  of  the 
situation." 

Will  Appleby  pursed  his  lips  ;  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"Miriam's  a  strange  girl,"  he  said.  "She  and  Esther  have 
next  to  nothing  in  common.  She  oughtn't  to  live  alone  there 
with  only  Mrs.  Bentley  and  Miss  Russell,  and  the  servants. 
Esther  has  spoken  of  it.  But  Miriam  just  gets  mad.  We're 
helpless.  She's  been  an  invalid  so  long,  and  Mr.  Cantey 
made  so  much  of  her  those  last  years  .  .  .  the  fact  is, 


158  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

I  doubt  if  Miriam  can  be  managed  at  all.  She'd  never  let 
Esther  carry  her  off." 

Mr.  Amme's  quick,  neat  little  thoughts  were  darting 
keenly  about  as  he  listened.  It  was  true  enough;  the  two 
girls  had  little  in  common.  Esther  was  pretty,  ambitious, 
eager  for  money — an  insatiable  little  spendthrift,  if  you 
came  right  down  to  it.  Miriam  was  utterly  careless  of 
money;  a  girl  who  got  excited  over  books  and  lived  much 
in  the  creative  world  inhabited  by  her  father.  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  her  accident  there  was  really  no  telling  what  she 
might  or  mightn't  have  done — gone  into  business,  anything ! 
The  accident  had  shut  her  up,  of  course,  turned  her  thoughts 
in.  Illness,  suffering,  do  that.  Here  she  was,  now,  distinct- 
ly, with  all  the  romantic  fire  that  had  been  in  Jim  Cantey 
— but  with  none  of  his  experience  and  stability.  In  pos- 
session of  God-knew-what  secrets  and  documents.  Strong- 
headed — wrong-headed,  even — as  her  father.  .  .  .  Through 
a  queer  caprice  it  was  Miriam  who  would  hold  the  real 
power,  Esther,  the  power-hungry  one,  who  must  take  the 
smaller  portion  and  work  out  her  problems  through  her 
husband — a  husband  who  was  a  nice  fellow  and  a  good 
enough  business  man  but  not  a  Jim  Cantey.  .  .  .  And  all 
the  while  that  mad  young  adventurer  was  loose  in  the  house ! 

"Could  Miriam  be  influenced  at  all  through  Mrs.  Bent- 
ley?" 

Will  Appleby  shook  his  head  again ;  threw  out  a  hand. 
"Mrs.  Bentley  is,  when  all's  said  and  done,  a  hired  house- 
keeper. And  she  knows  who's  paying  her." 

"And  Miss  Russell's  a  hired  nurse." 

"Exactly." 

There  seemed  to  be  nothing,  at  the  moment,  to  be  done. 
Mr.  Amme  walked  briskly  to  his  office,  brows  knit,  eyes 
intent  on  the  pavement.  Will  Appleby  smoked  fast  as  he 
rode  in  his  automobile  to  the  factory. 

Oswald  Quakers  was  back  Monday  morning.  Faintly 
smiling  he  called  up  Harvey  O'Rell  and  suggested  lunch. 
Since  Tim's  little  disclosure  he  had  smiled  a  good  deal 
over  Harvey. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  159 

Amme  joined  them  and  offered  a  report  concerning  the 
check  and  the  Stafford  finances.  CXRell  let  him  do  the  talk- 
ing. 

Said  Quakers: 

"That'll  help  some.  We'll  get  this  man.  He's  an  out-and- 
out  crook." 

"I  should  hardly  have  thought  that."    This  from  Amme. 

Quakers  lighted  a  cigarette.  "The  name  Stafford's  an 
alias." 

"You  know  that  ?" 

Quakers  drew  from  an  inner  pocket  a  typewritten  docu- 
ment. It  proved  to  be  the  Thursday  to  Sunday  record  of 
the  New  York  operative.  In  spots  it  was  amusing.  Guard's 
stenographer  had  told  all  she  knew.  Most  of  it,  however 
interesting,  didn't  apply.  But  she  was  clear  about  this 
"Stafford"  name.  Guard  had  told  her  that,  among  other 
things.  She  urged  secrecy  on  her  new  young  man.  "Staf- 
ford" had  never  come  to  the  office.  But  she  had  once  taken 
a  note  to  him  for  Mr.  Guard.  He  was  then  staying  at  a 
mean  little  hotel  far  over  on  the  lower  West  Side,  near  the 
steamship  piers.  The  "Kelly  Square  Hotel"  she  believed 
it  was  called.  She  thought  it  hardly  a  reputable  place,  and 
was  glad  to  get  away  from  the  quarter.  But  the  young 
man  interested  her.  She  had  tried  to  learn  his  real  name, 
but  it  was  nowhere  in  the  files,  and  Mr.  Guard  wouldn't 
tell. 

"I've  got  lines  out,"  said  Quakers.  "Have  the  name 
shortly.  We  ought  to  find  out  a  little  more  about  the  check, 
too.  Then  we  can  close  in  on  him." 

"Close  in  ?"    The  question  was  O'Rell's. 

Quakers  nodded. 

"Going  over  Bob's  head?" 

"Bob's  had  his  chance.  I'm  going  to  take  it  up  with  the 
fellow  direct." 

"But  he'll  go  straight  to  Bob." 

"Not  when  I'm  through  with  him.  No,  he  won't  go  to 
Bob.  He'll  leave  town,  if  he's  lucky  enough  to  keep  out 
of  jail." 


160  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

The  Applebys  discussed  the  matter  at  home,  while  dress- 
ing for  a  dance  at  the  Golf  Club,  guardedly.  For  there  were 
profound  reticences  between  them  in  the  matter  of  Cantey 
Estate. 

"Saw  Mrs.  Bentley  down-town,"  said  Esther.  She  stood 
before  her  mirror,  doing  up  her  hair.  She  was  shorter  than 
her  sister,  and  of  a  plumper  mold.  Her  face  was  round, 
pretty,  smoothly  expressionless.  "Miriam's  flat  again.  Wear- 
ing herself  out  trying  to  run  that  big  place.  Why  can't 
she  make  up  her  mind  she's  an  invalid  and  let  it  go  at 
that!  I'm  sure  we'd  all  be  glad  to  do  what  we  could  to 
make  it  easy  for  her." 

"Mrs.  Bentley  say  anything" — Will  was  buttoning  a  shoe 
—"she  say  anything  about  the  young  fellow  they've  got 
working  there?" 

"No."  Esther  stood  motionless,  her  shapely  white  arms 
about  her  head.  "What  young  fellow?  What  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"A  queer  chap—a  writer.  Bob  Listerly  put  him  in  to 
write  your  father's  biography." 

"They  wouldn't  do  that  without  consulting  us!" 

"They  have." 

"But  just  as  a  matter  of  common  courtesy — my  own 
father—" 

"Bob's  turned  him  loose  there,  in  the  study." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Nobody  seems  to  know.  Amme's  worried.  Seems  to 
be  an  adventurer." 

"But  Miriam's  rooms  are  right  next  the — Mr.  List- 
shouldn't  have  done  a  thing  like  that!" 

"I  know.    But  I  didn't  know  quite  what  to  say." 

"I  should  think  you  could  have  protested." 

Will  began  on  the  other  shoe. 

"It  isn't  as  if  Miriam  were  a  sophisticated  girl — used  to 
men — "  Esther,  brows  knit,  caught  herself  thinking  aloud. 
"You  know,  Will,  if  it  should  ever  come  to  a  question  of 
her  marrying — I  mean  if  she  were  well  enough,  and  it  was 
a  man  we  knew  would  be  good  to  her — I  wouldn't  for  one 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  161 

moment  stand  in  her  way.     Not  for  one  moment.     .     .     . 
Why  did  he  have  to  let  him  work  right  there  in  the  house?" 

"The  papers  are  all  there." 

Esther  was  distrait,  if  smooth  and  smiling,  all  the  even- 
ing. Shortly  after  breakfast  the  next  morning  she  dropped 
in  at  the  old  Cantey  place. 

Mrs.  Bentley — gray,  calm  to  the  point  of  stupidity,  re- 
spectful— met  her  in  the  hall.  She  thought  Miss  Cantey  was 
feeling  a  little  better. 

"The  young  man  is  working  here  to-day,  is  he?" 

"Mr.  Stafford?  Yes,  he  wrent  up  a  few  minutes  ago.  He 
comes  at  nine."  ' 

Esther's  glance  rested  a  moment  on  the  housekeeper ;  then 
she  went  on  up-stairs. 

The  study  door  was  shut.  She  eyed  it  with  cold  curi- 
osity. 

To  the  nurse,  she  said: 

"My  sister  is  ill,  Miss  Russell?" 

"Doctor  Martin  has  just  left,  Mrs.  Appleby.  He  says  she 
is  better." 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"It's  hard  to  say.  Temperature,  and  a  little  delirium.  A 
nervous  setback.  She  insisted  on  getting  up  this  morning, 
but  Doctor  Martin  told  her  she  must  stay  abed  another  day. 
I've  thought — " 

Miss  Russell,  hesitating,  glanced  toward  the  study  door. 
Esther's  gaze  followed. 

"Well,"  said  Esther  then,  "what  have  you  thought?" 

"It's  not  a  thing  I'd  speak  of,  Mrs.  Appleby,  but  I  should 
think  it  would  be  disturbing  to  have  a  stranger  up  here, 
working  among  Mr.  Cantey's  things.  She's  almost  lived 
in  that  room.  It  meant  a  great  deal  to  her." 

All  the  time  she  was  sitting  at  Miriam's  bedside  Esther 
was  considering  this  speech.  Had  the  girl  meant  to  place  an 
emphasis  on  it?  Curiosity  burned  in  her  brain.  Miriam, 
too,  seemed  strung  up,  touchy. 

Esther  told  herself  that  she  had  some  rights  in  the  mat- 
ter. Even  if  her  father  had  left  the  control  of  his  vast 


162  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

properties  to  this  girl,  surely  her  only  sister  was  responsi- 
ble to  the  extent  of  advising  her,  guiding  her.  And  he  had 
thought  of  her  as  getting  stronger;  he  hadn't  pictured  her 
as  an  out-and-out  invalid,  with  a  temperature,  and  a  little 
delirium.  If  he  had  realized  how  helpless  she  was  going  to 
be,  he  would  at  least  have  given  Will  some  little  say  in  the 
matter.  Leaving  it  to  Miriam  was  all  right ;  nobody  could 
question  that;  but  how  about  leaving  it  to  the  designing 
men  that  were  already  worming  their  way  into  her  confi- 
dence, or  at  least  into  the  inmost  secrets  of  Cantey  Estate? 
She  decided  that  Miriam  had  already  seen  this  Stafford. 
Something  had  happened.  She  knew  Miriam  too  well ;  you 
couldn't  fool  her ! 

Before  her  very  brief  call  was  over  Esther  had  built  up 
in  her  own  mind  a  point  of  view,  complete,  hard,  fortified 
at  every  point  with  eager  self- justification.  The  little  sis- 
terly quarrel  they  had  but  set  her  thoughts  the  more  firmly. 

Esther  said — after  expressing  sympathy  and  telling  of 
the  party  of  the  club — looking  critically  about  her: 

"You  ought  to  give  up  this  big  place,  Miriam.  Though 
goodness  knows  I  don't  want  the  care  of  it,  myself.  But 
you're  simply  wearing  yourself  out.  You  ought  to  take 
Miss  Russell  and  Mrs.  Bentley  and  go  to  a  sanatorium  and 
really  rest.  You  can't  carry  all  this  burden." 

Miriam  said  she  was  really  more  comfortable  here  at 
home. 

"But,  my  dear,  here  are  Will  and  I.  I'm  sure  Will  would 
be  glad  to  help  in  any  way  he  could.  Business  advice,  that 
sort  of  thing.  Here  you  are,  you  see,  within  a  few  months 
of  taking  over  the  Estate  from  the  trustees,  and  you  aren't 
even  as  well  as  you  were  last  year." 

Esther  walked  down  the  hall  with  Miss  Russell. 

They  stopped  before  the  study  door,  tacitly.  A  man's 
steps  could  be  heard,  pacing  the  floor. 

"He  does  that  a  great  deal,"  remarked  Miss  Russell,  in 
a  discreet  tone. 

Esther  felt  in  her  purse ;  selected  a  bank-note ;  glanced 
down  and  saw  that  it  was  for  five  dollars.  That  seemed 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  163 

a  good  deal.  Miss  Russell  had  glanced  down  at  it  too, 
and  was  standing  motionless.  Esther  had  often  heard  Will 
say:  "When  I  want  a  thing,  I  don't  haggle  or  delay.  I 
go  after  it.  I  get  it."  She  was  confused.  Her  pulse  was 
beating  high.  She  found  another  five-dollar  note ;  crumpled 
the  two  together;  placed  both  in  Miss  Russell's  oddly  con- 
venient palm.  Though  Miss  Russell  was  protesting  a  very 
little ;  discreetly. 

"Let  me  know  how  things  get  along,"  said  Esther;  and 
fled  down  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER   NINETEEN 
In  Which  Miriam  Stands  Alone 

AFTER  the  scene  with  Miriam,  Calverly  found  himself 
struggling  with  a  sort  of  madness.  Not  since  the  first 
few  awful  weeks  after  Cicely's  death  had  he  sobbed  as  he 
sobbed  there  on  Jim  Cantey's  desk.  There  was  relief  in  it. 
But  his  mind  was  reeling.  Love  had  come  to  him.  It  had 
fairly  struck  him.  A  love  so  sudden  and  so  fantastically 
impossible  as  to  seem  grotesque.  At  one  moment  he  was 
bitterly  afraid  of  it ;  the  next  moment  he  passionately  wel- 
comed it.  Over  and  over  he  tried  to  feel  again  the 
thrill  he  had  felt  when  he  picked  her  up  that  second  time, 
had  her  in  his  arms,  felt  her  hair  brushing  his  cheek.  It 
seemed  the  end  and  the  beginning  of  life.  The  imperative 
desire  to  tell  her  the  truth  about  himself  was  a  fire  in  his 
brain.  He  quivered  with  impatience.  At  each  sound  in  the 
house  he  sprang  toward  the  narrow  door.  He  felt  that  he 
couldn't  bear  it  until  another  day;  he  couldn't  bear  it  an 
hour.  The  dominant  impulse  during  most  of  the  day  was 
simply  to  tell  her  and  then  go— drop  the  job,  the  pay,  the 
thrill  of  carrying  out  that  fine  strong  desire  of  Jim  Cantey's 
— drop  everything,  plunge  again  into  life — Europe,  Africa, 
China,  anywhere.  But  next  time  with  his  own  name.  He 
didn't  even  think  of  suicide  now.  That  thought  had  been 
born  of  depression.  Now  he  was  at  a  dizzy  height. 

Twice  during  the  afternoon,  beside  himself,  he  tapped  at 
the  narrow  door.  There  was  no  response. 

That  evening,  in  his  new,  not  uncomfortable  room  on  the 
back  slope  of  the  Hill,  he  sat  long  before  the  picture  of  Cicely 
in  its  little  silver  frame.  A  miracle  had  touched  him.  He 
needn't  hide  this  great  new  experience  from  Cicely.  He 
could  face  her  picture  now.  She  wouldn't  mind.  It  would 
even  please  her.  It  was  a  renewal,  if  not  of  the  old  love, 

164 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  165 

then  of  the  power  to  love.  It  was  the  rebirth  of  his  dead 
heart.  He  knew  now  that  he  might,  in  time,  have  yielded 
to  the  mothering  instinct  of  a  Mary  Maloney  or  to  the 
subtle  moral  undermining  of  a  Margie  Daw.  It  would  have 
been  disheartening,  but  it  would  probably  have  happened. 
At  living  alone  he  had  reached  the  end  of  his  rope.  If  he 
was  to  live  on  at  all,  there  must  be  some  sense  of  companion- 
ship, somebody  to  care  for  or  at  least  somebody  to  care 
for  him.  But  now,  by  a  sort  of  divine  luck,  it  had  come 
right.  It  wasn't  weakness,  it  was  strength.  Nor  was  it  bit- 
ter. The  very  touch  of  hopelessness  in  it  exalted  him.  It 
wasn't  desire ;  not  wholly  desire.  It  was  contact  again  with 
the  creative  thrill  of  life.  It  was  the  Power  of  his  youth. 
It  was  health  to  his  body,  light  to  his  eyes.  .  .  .  He 
could  do  something  now.  Something  1 

But  the  heavenly  madness  burned  at  his  nerves.  He 
wrote  until  two  in  the  morning  on  his  confession,  pour- 
ing his  heart  out  on  the  paper.  Then  he  tore  it  up. 

The  difficulty  was  going  to  be,  not  in  any  failure  of  his 
desire  to  tell  Miriam,  but  that  against  the  confused  hurt, 
the  crushing  sense  of  injury  that  his  years  of  disaster  and 
bitter  struggle  came  to  in  his  present  thoughts,  he  couldn't 
make  headway.  These  years  were  too  close,  too  overpow- 
ering. It  was  the  sort  of  thing  a  sensitive  man  can't  talk 
about.  He  knew  that  he  would  literally  break  down  if  he 
tried.  There  was  no  sense  in  breaking  down.  But  she 
must  have  the  kernel  of  the  truth.  Given  his  real  name, 
she  could  fill  in  all  the  sorry  details.  Everybody  knew 
them.  .  .  .  He  tried  writing  it  briefly,  simply;  tore 
that  up.  .  .  .  Talking  was  better.  The  direct  thing. 
He  knew  that  he  would  have  to  tell  her  in  the  morning. 
The  moment  he  saw  her.  He  couldn't  wait.  He  tossed  in 
bed ;  dozed  off  now  and  then ;  watched  the  red  sunrise  steal 
up  the  street  through  the  trees;  felt  again  that  wisp  of 
hair  against  his  cheek.  .  .  . 

And  then  for  four  days  he  entered  the  Cantey  house  at 
nine  sharp;  marched  up  the  two  flights  to  Jim  Cantey's 
study;  struggled  to  get  his  mind  somehow  on  those  wire 


166  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

baskets  of  correspondence;  walked  the  floor;  jumped  like 
a  cat  at  every  sound;  watched  that  narrow  door  between 
the  book-shelves  and  the  window. 

He  constructed  letters  to  send  through  the  post.  It  was 
the  only  channel  of  communication  open  to  him.  But  he 
found  he  couldn't  quite  do  it.  She  could  see  him  if  she 
chose.  It  rested  with  her.  He  must  wait.  Somehow  he 
did  wait;  if  not  repressing  the  fires  within  him,  at  least 
concealing  them. 

He  found  himself  making  acquaintances  in  his  new 
home.  There  was  one  odd,  dry  little  talk  with  Mr.  Amme 
walking  up  the  street  in  the  morning.  And  he  wrote  to 
Margie  Daw,  enclosing  a  ten-dollar  note  on  account ;  wrote 
two  letters,  in  fact — the  first  stiff  to  the  point  of  brusk- 
ness,  which  he  couldn't  send  because  of  what  he  felt  to  be 
her  kindness.  The  second  he  sent.  There  was  gratitude  in 
it,  which  she,  in  the  curious  frenzy  of  the  woman  who  has 
overreached  and  is  driven  to  make  her  point,  misread. 

She  replied  by  messenger,  in  a  brisk  penciled  scrawl, 
enclosing  a  theater  ticket  for  the  evening.  He  would  find 
her  in  the  next  seat.  Afterward,  if  he'd  see  her  back  to 
the  rooms,  she'd  cook  up  a  rabbit. 

It  was  too  late  to  be  answered.  It  disturbed  him.  He 
tried  to  rouse  himself  to  the  situation,  feeling  that  he  must 
at  least  appear  to  handle  it  like  a  man  of  the  world — Margie 
was  such  an  impulsively  good  sort — and  ended  by  letting 
the  evening  slip  by;  doing  nothing. 

The  next  morning,  after  eleven,  she  called  up. 

He  was  standing  on  a  chair,  elbows  on  the  top  book-shelf, 
moodily  studying  out  the  details  of  the  model  ship,  the 
Congo;  pushing  open  little  doors,  drawing  thread-ropes 
through  pulleys,  peeping  in  at  minute  portholes. 

He  heard  the  bell.  There  was  a  desk  telephone.  He 
hadn't  used  it.  He  stared  down  at  it  now.  Pictures  of 
Miriam  Cantey  swam,  wavering  in  emotional  clouds,  before 
his  inner  eye.  The  bell  rang  again.  He  answered  now.  It 
didn't  occur  to  him  that  anybody  in  the  outside  world  knew 
he  was  here.  Or  cared. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  167 

Margie's  voice  seemed  dry,  a  little  hard.  It  came  out  of 
a  remote  past,  before  something,  when  life  was  all  of  an- 
other color,  when  it  was  something  else.  He  had  to  think 
quickly  to  catch  her  tone. 

"Sorry  you  couldn't  get  around,"  she  said. 

She  was  pleasantly  offhand,  yet  he  felt  the  exigent  strain 
in  her. 

"Yes,  I  was  sorry,"  he  heard  himself  saying. 

"You've  got  to  come  and  see  me,  Henry.  I  must  hear 
all  about  it." 

"Not  much  to  tell,"  said  he.  "Not  yet.  Just  groping 
around,  getting  started." 

"How  are  you  fixed  for  to-night  ?" 

"Well — to-night — I'm  pretty  busy  to-night,  Margie." 

She  called  up  again  at  four.  It  seemed  that  Julia  Mar- 
lowe was  coming  to  town.  If  he  wanted  to  go,  she'd  have 
to  apply  well  ahead  for  seats. 

Margie  seemed  a  little  gushing  now,  or  girlish.  Agaia 
he  put  her  off.  He  felt  a  boor.  But  the  miracle  had  come 
to  him  here  in  Jim  Cantey's  study.  And  somewhere  be- 
yond the  narrow  door  was  Miriam.  The  place  was  sacred, 
a  room  of  dreams.  The  thought  that  Margie,  anybody, 
could  intrude  at  any  moment  over  the  wire,  struck  a  chill 
into  his  heart.  She  called  up  the  next  day.  This  time 
just  to  wish  him  a  good  morning.  She  was  a  little  worried 
about  him,  she  said.  How  could  she  be  sure  he  was  really 
better?  He  must  show  himself;  report.  Who  was  taking 
care  of  him  now,  anyway?  .  .  .  Before  he  could  work 
through  the  mumbling  into  a  coherent  reply,  she  had  rung 
off,  with  a — "Well,  I  must  run  along.  Do  take  care  of 
yourself,  Henry.  Let  me  know  if  I  can  do  anything.  And 
please  don't  be  silly  about  that  money.  I'm  not  broke.  I'd 
tell  you  if  I  was.  So  long!" 

He  hung  up  the  receiver;  sank  back  in  his  chair.  Had 
he  involved  himself?  Had  he  let  Margie  into  his  life? 
Suddenly  he  could  see  himself  lying  sick  in  her  room,  in 
her  bed ;  and  she  there  smoking  a  cigarette ;  and  a  nurse, 


168  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

dressed  to  go,  unpleasantly  taking  the  two  of  them  in  with 
a  look.  He  brushed  a  tired  hand  across  his  eyes. 

He  looked  wistfully  up  at  the  Congo.  Jim  Cantey  had 
worked  his  dream  out.  He  had  been  able  to.  Some  men, 
with  the  best  efforts,  couldn't.  Luck  and  gifts  entered  there. 
Jim  Cantey  knew  that. 

Calverly  thought  of  a  ship  becalmed  in  the  Gulf  Stream. 
There  was  a  figure!  Life  seemed  like  that.  You  coukl 
work  endlessly  on  your  ship;  you  could  work  your  heart 
out,  on  deck,  in  the  rigging,  below.  But  you  couldn't  stop 
it  drifting.  Jim  Cantey 's  sails  had  caught  the  trade  winds. 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  narrow  door. 

He  sat  limp,  motionless;  fought  for  his  breath.  He 
hadn't  foreseen  it  would  be  like  this.  He  was  trembling. 

Again  the  tapping,  a  little  stronger. 

Somehow  he  got  up ;  opened  the  door. 

She  was  there,  in  the  wheel-chair. 

"I've  been  ill,"  she  said ;  and  caught  her  breath.  "I 
couldn't  get  word  to  you.  Not  very  well." 

"I  tired  you,"  he  said,  "that  day." 

"Xo.  Or  yes,  perhaps.  I  don't  mind  that.  It's  better 
to  be  tired  sometimes.  I'ye  been  so  useless." 

"Oh— no!" 

"Yes,  I  have.     It's  no  good  going  on  like  that." 

He  was  feasting  his  eyes  on  her.  She  was  frailer, 
sweeter.  What  wonderful  hair  she  had!  There  was  red 
gold  in  it.  And  her  eyes — that  extraordinarily  vivid  blue! 
Over  and  over  and  over  he  had  tried  to  bring  her  distinctly 
before  his  mind's  eye,  each  time  failing.  And  now  here  she 
was!  His  pulse  was  pounding  at  his  temples.  He  leaned 
against  the  door-frame. 

"And  you,"  she  asked,  hesitating — "how  have  you  been  ?" 

"Oh,  all  right,  only    ....  I've  wanted  to  see  you." 

"Yes,  I  know.  I've  wanted — I  promised  you  the  papers. 
I've  wondered  what  you'd  think." 

"Oh,  I  knew  ...  of  course.  .  .  ."  He  waved 
toward  the  desk.  .  .  .  "I've  been  wrestling  with  this 
stuff.  Haven't  got  very  far  with  it." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  169 

"Of  course  not.  I'm  going  to  give  you  the  others.  So 
you'll  have  them  by  you,  in  case  I — " 

Her  eyes  were  taking  him  in,  with  a  curious  touch  of 
timidity.  Her  voice  was  none  too  steady. 

"I  wonder,"  she  went  on,  "if  you  have  any  safe  way  of 
keeping  them." 

"You  mean,  if  I — " 

"You  might  want  to  take  them  home  with  you.  We — we 
agreed,  you  know.  You  are  to  help  me  carry  out  father's 
wish.  There  was  a  strong  box  here.  There — on  the  bot- 
tom shelf,  in  the  corner." 

He  brought  the  box  to  the  desk, 

"We  can  put  them — the  important  ones — in  that." 

They  were  both  looking  at  tbe  safe  now. 

"I — I'll  have  to  get  them  out,"  she  said,  rather  hurriedly. 
"I  may  have  to — to  trouble  you  to — well,  help  me  this  one 
time.  Afterward  I  shan't  have  to  trouble  you." 

There  was  a  pause.  He  found  himself  moving  toward 
her.  Once  he  glanced  at  her;  she  was  studying  the  floor. 
A  wave  of  delicate  color  was  flooding  her  pale  skin.  She 
bent  her  head  lower  as  if  to  hide  it. 

At  the  door  he  stopped  short.  He  knew,  suddenly,  that 
if  he  were  so  much  as  to  touch  her  his  resolution  would 
give  way.  As  for  taking  her  up  again  in  his  arms  .  .  . 

"Xo,"  he  heard  himself  saying.  "No.  Not  to-day.  I 
might  lose  them.  You  see,  I  have  to  go  through  all  this 
stuff  anyway,  first.  I  could — I  could  let  you  know  when — " 

It  was  curiously  difficult  to  get  the  words  past  his  thick 
tongue  and  throat. 

He  drew  himself  up,  hands  clenched,  at  his  sides,  breath- 
ing deeply. 

"There's  something  I  must  tell  you.  My  name  isn't  Staf- 
ford." He  could  feel  rather  than  see  the  look  of  blank 
amazement  that  came  over  her  face.  The  color  had  gone. 
And  there  were  the  beginnings  of  pain  there.  He  rushed, 
blundering,  on.  "It  isn't  Stafford.  I'm  not  bad.  Not 
exactly.  I've  had  trouble.  You'll  understand,  perhaps, 
when  I  tell  you  .  .  ." 


170  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

But  he  couldn't  tell  her.  The  breakdown  was  upon  him. 
He  stood  there,  fighting  it;  feeling  her  great  blue  eyes  full 
on  his  face. 

He  choked  down  a  sob;  came  forward.  She  shrank 
back  a  little  way  in  the  chair.  But,  very  gently,  he  wheeled 
her  aside,  then  rushed  past  her  across  the  room — her  own 
sitting-room — to  the  desk  by  the  window ;  snatched  up  a 
book  that  lay  there,  Satraps  of  the  Simple,  by  Henry 
Calverly,  and  thrust  it  into  her  wondering  hands. 

"That's  my  name !"  he  cried.  "That's  who  I  am !  Now 
you  know !" 

He  left  her  then;  wandered  back  into  the  study;  stared 
out  a  window;  stood  there  a  long  time,  until  an  odd  new 
rustling  sound  startled  him  into  turning. 

She  was  walking  across  the  study,  balancing  with  her 
arms  and  reaching  out  to  catch  a  corner  of  the  desk.  Just 
before  touching  it  she  sank  to  the  floor. 

He  was  lifting  her  now;  breathing  out  the  feeling  that 
was  overflowing  his  heart.  Once  his  lips  brushed  her  fore- 
head. "I  love  you !"  he  was  whispering.  "It's  dreadful.  I 
mustn't  tell  you.  I'll  go.  That's  why  I  didn't  want — " 

"Please !"  she  said  gently.    "Not  that !" 

"Oh,  I  know  I'm—" 

"Help  me  up.  You  don't  know — all  these  years — it's  my 
first  step !" 

He  saw  now  that  she  was  intent  on  her  own  great  ex- 
perience. 

"But  you  mustn't!  It  will  hurt  you!  It  may  kill  you! 
Oh,  please !" 

"I  don't  care !  Just  steady  me.  Let  me  walk.  Over  here, 
by  the  safe." 

She  sank  down  in  the  big  chair,  white,  eyes  closed,  lips 
compressed  in  pain.  After  a  moment  she  laid  a  frail  hand 
on  her  breast. 

He  stood  over  her,  white  himself,  tense,  in  an  agony. 

She  was  speaking,  very  low,  without  opening  her  eyes. 
He  had  to  bend  over. 

"It's  wonderful!" 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  171 

"But  you—" 

"I  don't  care.  I'm  going  to  walk  every  day.  I  must 
stand  alone." 

"But  if  you — the  doctors — " 

"Please !  I  simply  don't  care.  They've  kept  me  down  all 
these  years.  I'm  changing.  This  is  new." 

She  stopped  abruptly ;  rested  a  little  longer ;  then,  clearly 
still  in  pain,  stopping  often  for  breath,  opened  the  safe. 
They  made  a  selection  among  the  note-books  and  papers. 

"There's  a  bell  in  my  room  there,"  she  said  then,  "be- 
tween the  windows.  Please  ring  it.  I'll  have  Miss  Russell 
carry  me  back.  .  .  .  Somebody  in  the  house  is  sure  to 
know  anyway.  You  have  to  trust  somebody.  Father  often 
said  that." 

He  rang;  then  came  back  and  stood  over  her. 

"If  I  could  only  help  you!"  he  said,  sadly. 

"Help  me!"  And  to  his  amazement  she  gave  a  little 
laugh. 

Then,  abruptly,  she  said — "I  hear  her  coming.  You'd 
better  put  those  things  in  the  box.  The  key's  inside,  I 
think." 

He  hurriedly  filled  the  box. 

Miss  Russell  stood  in  the  narrow  doorway.  Her  startled 
gaze  rested  on  Miriam,  darted  to  the  open  safe,  the  strong 
box  on  the  desk,  the  slender,  sensitive  young  man  who  was 
just  putting  some  papers  in  it  and  locking  it,  and  back  to 
the  girl  in  the  big  chair. 

"Please  carry  me  back,"  said  Miriam. 

"But — "  The  nurse  looked  again  at  the  young  man. 

"I  walked  here,  Miss  Russell,"  said  Miriam,  wearily. 
"I'll  ask  you  to  carry  me  back." 

"You— walked  f" 

"Yes.    No  more,  please !" 

And  when  the  nurse  had  placed  her  carefully  in  the 
wheel-chair,  she  added,  "You  may  go  now." 

Slowly,  eyes  rolling,  lips  pursed,  Miss  Russell  went,  clos- 
ing a  door  behind  her. 

There  was  a  long,  long  silence. 


172  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"I'll  close  the  door,"  he  said. 

"No,  wait  a  little."  She  had  Satraps  of  the  Simple  in 
her  hands  again;  was  studying  it,  turning  the  leaves.  She 
didn't  look  up. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  trust  me  so." 

"Father  followed  his  instincts." 

"I — I  shouldn't  have  told  you  what  I — " 

"Perhaps  you  won't  see  me  for  a  few  days  again." 

"It  would  be  better."    His  tone  was  despondent. 

"That's  why  I  wanted  you  to  have  the  papers." 

"After  all  I've  been  through — all  they  would  tell  you 
about  me.  .  .  .  It's  been  such  a  fight." 

"Perhaps  that's  why,"  she  said 

He  looked  puzzled. 

"I  mean,"  she  said,  "that  perhaps  it's  because  you've 
had  to  fight  and  suffer  that  I  get  this  wonderful  inspira- 
tion from  you.  You  don't — you  can't  know  what  it  means 
— what  you've  done.  I've  been  like  a  dead  girl.  I'm  awake 
now.  My  fight  is  just  beginning.  To-day!  My  fight!" 

She  raised  a  hand.  He  came  in ;  clasped  it.  Once  again 
color  came  to  the  two  finely  sensitive  faces. 

"You — you'll  want  to  work,"  said  she. 

"You're  very  tired,"  said  he. 

"I  will  rest  now." 

"I'll  close  the  door." 

It  didn't  occur  to  him  then,  thrilled  with  terrible 
happiness,  that  an  invalid  girl,  however  intelligent,  how- 
ever deeply  in  the  confidence  of  her  father,  may  know 
little  or  nothing  of  the  daily  narrative  of  crime  and  disaster 
in  the  newspapers.  He  had  assumed  that  the  mere  men- 
tion of  his  real  name  would  recall  to  her  every  hideous  de- 
tail of  the  Watt  trial,  his  imprisonment,  everything.  He 
took  it  for  granted  now. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 
The  Fever  Called  Love 

MISS  RUSSELL,  her  face  a  mask,  moved  briskly 
about,  putting  Miss  Cantey's  room  to  rights. 

Miss  Cantey  herself  lay  on  the  bed,  propped  up  with 
pillows,  her  reading  lamp  lighted,  a  book,  Satraps  of  the 
Simple,  in  her  lap.  It  was  half  past  seven.  The  dinner 
tray  had  gone  down.  Yet  Miss  Cantey — in  a  curious  silent 
state  of  excitement — had  refused,  sharply  for  her,  to  be 
undressed  for  the  night.  And  the  wheel-chair  was  right 
there  by  the  bed. 

Miss  Russell  hesitated  in  the  doorway. 

"I'm  very  comfortable  here,"  said  Miss  Cantey,  abruptly. 
"I'll  ring  when  I  need  you.  No,  don't  close  the  door.  I 
want  the  air." 

Miss  Russell  moved  discreetly  away.  The  study  door 
stood  open.  She  paused  there,  looking  at  the  telephone 
instrument  on  the  desk.  She  went  on  down-stairs.  There 
was  another  such  instrument  on  the  lower  stair  landing,  but 
Mrs.  Bentley  was  in  the  living-room  reading  the  paper. 
To  her  Miss  Russell  spoke,  in  a  voice  of  professional  quiet. 

"I'm  going  to  run  over  to  the  drug  store.  If  Miss  Cantey 
rings  I'll  be  right  back." 

From  a  telephone  booth  in  the  drug  store  she  spoke  to 
Mrs.  Appleby. 

A  little  scene  followed  at  the  Applebys'. 

The  manufacturer  was  roused  from  a  comfortable  absorp- 
tion in  the  evening  paper  by  a  tremulously  indignant  Esther. 

"Will !     Listen !     Something's  got  to  be  done  at  once !" 

"What  on  earth's  the  matter,  Esther?" 

"That  fellow — Miriam's  been  in  father's  study  with  him. 
He  must  have  carried  her  in.  She  claims  she  walked. 
Imagine!  What  can  we  have  been  thinking  of  to  let  things 
run  so  loose!  She  opened  the  safe  for  him.  They  put  some 

173 


174  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

of  the  papers  into  a  strong  box.  Miss  Russell  saw  him 
carry  the  box  away  when  he  went  home." 

"But  how  does  Miss  Russell—" 

"She — she  says  she  thought  I  ought  to  know.  Miriam 
called  her  in.  She  actually  sa\r  it.  The  thing's  gone  further 
than  any  of  us  dreamed.  .  .  .  Will,  don't  sit  there 
like  that !  Get  up !  Do  something  1" 

"Yes,  I  know,  dear,  but — "  Will  slowly  rose;  leaned 
rather  helplessly  against  the  center  table — "But  you  must 
give  me  a  minute  to  think." 

"Why  ?  What  is  there  to  think  about  ?  It's  time  to  act 
now.  There  isn't  a  minute.  He's  coming  back  this  evening. 
Miriam  wouldn't  let  Miss  Russell  undress  her.  She's  sure 
there's  some  understanding  .  .  .  Don't  stand  there 
like  that!  Can't  you  do  something?" 

"At  the  moment  I  don't  see  just  what,  dear.  Miriam's 
twenty-four  years  old.  She's  living  there  on  her  own  prop- 
erty. We—" 

Esther  stamped.  Over  the  pleasantly  round,  usually 
placid  face  clouded  emotions  were  racing,  hints  of  the  gath- 
ering storm  behind  it. 

"How  can  you  talk  like  that!"  she  cried.  "Her  own 
property!  Oh,  I've  been  patient  with  her.  I've  been  kind 
and  yielding.  And  this  is  what  I  get  in  return!  I've  never 
taken  the  slightest  step  to  contest  the  will.  Father  made 
her  his  pet,  gave  her  everything — I  never  said  a  word.  And 
now,  when  my  worst  fears  are  realized,  now  when  she's 
fallen  into  the  clutches  of  this  unknown  man,  this  cheap 
rascal,  and  is  actually  taking  steps  to  blacken  my  own 
father's  name — " 

"But  my  dear,  how  do  you  know — " 

"Oh,  don't  speak  to  me!  If  you  can't  speak  like  a  man! 
Can't  you  see  what's  happening?  The  girl's  a  helpless  in- 
valid. What  can  she  know  about  the  world,  about  men! 
Here's  a  blackmailer  worms  his  way  in  there  and  in  less 
than  a  week  she's  turning  over  to  him  all  my  father's 
secrets.  ...  I  suppose  you'll  say  we  can't  legally  do 
anything !" 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  175 

"Well,  my  dear,  now  wait  just  a  moment — " 

"That's  it!  Wait!  Wait!  Wait!  And  meantime  he 
packs  father's  secrets  into  a  tin  box  and  carries  them  away ! 
And  meantime  Miriam's  waiting  there  to  give  him  more, 
hopelessly  infatuated !"  She  drew  herself  up,  flushed  with 
a  burning  rage.  "Why" — she  cried — "why  didn't  I  marry 
a  man !  A  man !"  And  stormed  out. 

The  person  she  had  happened  to  marry  thrust  his  hands 
into  his  trousers  pockets  and  for  a  brief  time  paced  the 
floor.  Then  he  snatched  up  a  cap  and  rushed  out  of  the 
house  and  down  the  Hill  to  Mr.  Amme's. 

Amme  said,  "If  you'll  just  leave  this  to  me  I  think  some- 
thing may  be  done." 

To  which  Will,  in  some  relief,  replied,  "Good!  And  call 
on  me  if  I  can  help."  And  to  the  still  excited  woman  wait- 
ing on  his  front  porch  he  remarked : 

"I've  started  things,  my  dear.  Now  you  must  try  to  keep 
patient.  You  and  I  mustn't  appear  too  much  in  this. 
Everything  that  can  be  done's  being  done." 

Miriam  lay  motionless  listening.  The  front  door  opened 
and  closed,  a  faint  but  familiar  sound,  far  below.  She 
lifted  her  head.  Color  crept  into  her  pale  cheeks. 

Then  her  head  sank  back  on  the  pillows.  The  step  on  the 
stairs  was  Miss  Russell's. 

The  nurse  glanced  in  at  the  door. 

"You  may  go  out  for  a  while,  if  you  like,"  said  Miriam, 
in  a  breathless  voice. 

"But — but  you'll  be  going  to  bed,  Miss  Cantey." 

"Oh,  no!  Not  now.  I'm  comfortable  enough  this  way. 
I'd  rather  be  alone.  When  I'm  ready  for  bed  I'll  call  Mrs. 
Bentley." 

Miss  Russell  slightly  pursed  her  lips ;  but  recollected  her- 
self and  moved  discreetly  away. 

"And  you  might  just  leave  the  door  open,"  said  Miss 
Cantey.  "I  like  the  air." 

The  nurse's  mouth  twisted  into  a  queer  half-smile  as  she 
moved  off  down  the  hall.  Miss  Cantey  didn't  seem  to  know 


176  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

that  she  had  spoken  twice  about  the  door.  Things  were 
going  along  at  a  great  rate ! 

Miriam  listened  while  Miss  Russell  went  to  her  own 
room,  then  down-stairs  and  out  of  the  house.  Through  the 
open  window  came  the  sound  of  her  quick  light  step  on 
the  stone  sidewalk,  a  sound  that  died  away. 

Miriam  still  listened.  Her  eyes  sought  the  clock  on  the 
mantel.  She  glanced  at  the  book  in  her  lap ;  held  it  up  (the 
effort  brought  a  twinge  of  pain)  and  restlessly  turned  the 
pages.  It  was  a  book  she  loved.  For  years  she  had  loved 
it,  the  fresh  nervous  English,  the  deft  merciless  charac- 
terizations— each  in  a  sentence  or  two — the  almost  casual 
wit.  The  Henry  Calverly  who  had  written  it  had  seemed 
as  remote  as  Lord  Tennyson. 

The  amazing  thing  to  her,  just  now,  was  his  youth.  He 
seemed  a  boy.  And  he  had  suffered.  The  world  had  in 
some  way  nearly  broken  him.  No  wonder — a  genius,  sensi- 
tive, delicate  of  mind,  hopelessly  lacking  in  the  crust  that 
a  man  must  have  who  is  to  live  in  the  world  of  men — and 
women!  Ah,  women!  She  wondered;  what  sort  had  he 
known  ? 

She  lay  back  on  the  pillows ;  closed  her  eyes ;  tried  to 
compose  her  thoughts.  It  would  be  difficult ;  she  knew  that. 
After  years  of  suffering  and  solitude,  he  had  come  like  a 
mad  angel  into  her  life.  All  her  secret  imaginings  were 
suddenly,  irresistibly  embodied  in  him.  Her  reason,  she 
knew,  was  going,  was  gone.  It  seemed  a  day  since  she  had 
seen  him. 

There  was  another  step  on  the  stone  walk.  Her  quick 
ear  selected  it  from  the  other  familiar  sounds  of  the  city. 
Heedless  of  the  pain — in  a  curious  way  welcoming  it — she 
raised  herself  on  an  elbow.  What  was  pain  now!  She 
had  stood  alone.  He  had  done  that  to  her,  after  all  these 
years.  She  resented  all  the  others — Esther,  this  nurse  who 
suddenly  seemed  a  stranger,  Mrs.  Bentley,  Doctor  Martin — 
fiercely  resented  them.  The  feeling  was  so  near  hatred  that 
it  frightened  her,  left  her  confused.  They  had  kept  her 
down,  cautiously  surrounded  her ;  but  he,  the  merest  thought 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  177 

of  him,  was  a  flame  in  her  breast.  For  him  she  had  risen 
and  walked.  She  thought  of  it,  now,  as  a  miracle.  During 
the  years  she  had  forgotten  how  to  want  to  walk.  Now 
she  was  torn  by  new  wild  dreams  of  another  sort  of  life. 
For  the  first  time  since  her  late  girlhood  she  saw  herself 
walking  about  like  other  people,  on  the  street,  on  the  golf 
course,  living,  working,  even  laughing.  The  fear  came  that 
she  might  not  have  the  physical  strength  to  endure  this 
excitement. 

That  almost  familiar  step  turned  in  at  the  front  walk. 
It  was  a  man.  Could  it  be  he?  The  bell  rang,  far  below. 
There  was  a  long  wait.  Then  the  door  opened ;  there  were 
faint  voices  and  a  step  on  the  stairs.  He  came  up,  and  up. 
Her  color  was  coming  and  going;  her  pulse  beat  high  in 
her  temples. 

He  was  right  here  now,  on  this  floor.  He  went  into  the 
study  and  quietly  closed  the  door. 

She  lay  there,  struggling  desperately  to  clear  away  the 
unreason  that  clouded  her  thoughts.  Then,  unsuccessful 
in  this,  swept  helplessly,  blindly  along  on  a  torrent  of  sheer 
feeling,  heedless  of  the  pain  the  effort  brought,  she  some- 
how got  herself  from  the  bed  to  her  chair,  and,  white  now, 
propelled  herself  back  into  her  sitting-room. 

The  narrow  door  was  closed.  For  a  long  moment  she 
lay  back,  motionless,  gazing  at  it. 

She  heard  him  then,  moving  about. 

The  fear  seized  her  that  he  might  suddenly  go.  He 
might  have  come  for  a  paper  or  a  book. 

She  wheeled  around  and  tapped  at  the  door.  It  opened 
so  quickly  that  she  started. 

The  strong  box  stood  on  the  desk;  he  had  brought  it 
back. 

He  spoke  first.  This  was  a  relief.  She  felt  that  she 
couldn't  have  broken  that  silence. 

"I  had  to  come,"  he  was  saying.  "I  couldn't  wait  over- 
night. If  you  hadn't  been  here  I  was  going  to  send  for 
Miss  Russell  and  ask  to  see  you.  I  brought  those  papers 
back.  You  must  put  them  in  the  safe." 


178  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

His  manner,  his  voice,  depressed  her. 

She  spoke  now,  to  ward  off  what  was  coming. 

"Very  likely  you're  right,"  she  heard  herself  saying,  in 
an  almost  matter-of-fact  voice.  "I'll  tell  you — I'll  give  you 
the  combination.  Then  you  can  get  them  out  as  you  need 
them." 

"Oh!  no- «o—  " 

"Please.  I  think  I'd  better  not  try  to  walk  again  to- 
night." They  couldn't  look  at  each  other  now ;  the  possi- 
bility of  his  carrying  her,  as  matters  stood,  had  so  plainly 
passed.  "Listen,  please !"  And  she  quietly  recited  the  com- 
bination. 

He  stood  motionless. 

"Please!"  she  said  again.  "If  you'll  go  to  the  safe — " 

He  obeyed  now,  following  her  directions  until  the  steel 
door  swung  open. 

"You  can  get  the  box  in,  I  think,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "there's  room  enough.  I'll  lay  the  key 
on  it." 

"Or  keep  it,"  said  she.    "It  doesn't  matter." 

"I'm  afraid  it  does.    I  can't  keep  it.    I  can't  do — this." 

"You  mean—?" 

"This  work.  I'm  going  to  Mr.  Listerly  to-night.  I  can't 
do  it.  I've  had  to  trust  that  you'd  understand.  It's  rather 
difficult  to  talk  about  it,  but  .  .  ." 

His  voice  trailed  into  silence.  He  closed  the  safe  and 
sank  on  the  arm  of  the  big  chair  to  which  he  had  carried 
her.  He  gazed  dismally  out  the  window,  then  up  at  the  row 
of  model  ships  .  .  .  Jim  Cantey's  sails  had  caught 
the  trade  winds ! 

Her  eyes  wandered  downward.  There  was  his  book  in 
her  lap.  She  couldn't  remember  bringing  it.  She  fingered  it. 
It  was  as  nearly  impossible  now  to  bring  her  spirits  up  to 
the  level  of  reason  as  it  had  been,  a  few  moments  earlier, 
to  bring  them  down  to  that  level. 

"It's  been  like  a  wonderful  dream,"  he  said,  without 
taking  his  eyes  from  the  ships.  "I  spoiled  it.  I  lost  my- 
self. I  told  you  I  loved  you." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  179 

"I  think,"  said  she,  very  low,  intently  studying  the  cover 
of  the  book,  "we  needn't  talk  about  that." 

"I'm  sorry."  His  voice  was  gentler.  "But  that's  what 
makes  it  so  plain,  of  course.  All  these  years  I've  thought 
I  could  never  love  again.  It's  been  a  problem  every  day, 
just  to  want  to  live,  keep  going.  I  didn't  know  there  was 
a  girl  like  you  in  the  world.  I  shall  know  now,  always, 
after  I'm — I'm  gone,  that  you've  brought  me  to  life  again. 
It  isn't  fair  to  bother  you  with  it,  but  I  do  want  you  to 
know  that.  I  want  you  to  know  that  you've  helped  me. 
You  see,  I've  made  such  a  mess  of  my  life." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

Then  she  said,  still  looking  down — "I  thought  I  had  your 
promise  to  do  the  book.  You  see,  I  had  about  given  up 
hope  of  ever  working  it  out  as  father  wished.  I — I  didn't 
know  there  was  a  man  like  you." 

He  threw  out  a  hand.  "It's  so  clearly  impossible,"  he  was 
bitter.  "I'm  poor,  useless.  I  can't  even  use  my  own  name. 
Oh,  it's  impossible!  I  can  offer  you  nothing — a  thousand 
times  worse  than  nothing.  It  would  injure  you  even  to  be 
known  as  my  friend." 

"Oh,"  said  she,  "you  mean  reputation — that!" 

"Certainly." 

"I  don't  think  I— care." 

"You  would  have  to  care." 

"But  father  didn't.  Not  for  himself.  He  thought 
of  protecting  Esther  and  me.  Every  one  protects  me. 
They've  been  dreadfully  wrong  about  it.  Couldn't  we — 
can't  we  regard  this  thing — well,  impersonally  ?" 

He  sprang  up ;  strode  to  a  window ;  stood,  hands  in 
pockets,  staring  out. 

"No,"  he  muttered,  "we  can't.  Or  I  can't:  I'm  sorry. 
I  know  I'm  failing  you.  Probably  I'm  weak.  Anyway,  the 
fact  that  I  can't  settles  it.  I'm  no  good.  That's  one  fact 
that  appears  to  be  established." 

She  lifted  her  eyes.  "Of  course  that's  absurd  1  You 
are  Henry  Calverly!  You  wrote  this  book."  She  held  it 
up.  "You're  young.  You  lost  the  touch  for  a  while,  but 
it  will  come  back.  You'll  write  other  books.  There's  no 


180  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

one  in  the  world  quite  like  you.  In  your  heart  you  know 
that ;  you  know  I'm  speaking  the  truth !" 

He  turned  on  her,  a  somber  light  in  his  eyes. 

"Do  you  really  think  that?  Do  you  believe  I'll  get  it 
again?" 

"Of  course!  What  right  have  you  to  be  discouraged? 
At  your  age  ?" 

"But  look  at  the  mess  I'm  in!  An  utter  failure!  When 
you  come  right  down  to  it,  an  outcast !" 

"Hasn't  every  artist  suffered — every  real  artist?  Just 
think  back.  Hardly  one  of  the  great  ones  has  got  on  in 
the  world;  any  number  have  been  outcasts!" 

She  could  feel  his  eyes ;  they  had  been  gray-blue,  but  now 
they  were  dark. 

The  telephone  rang. 

"I'll  answer,"  he  said,  absently,  reaching  for  the  instru- 
ment. Then  turned  on  her  with  this.  "I  must  ask  you  not 
to  make  it  hard.  The  least  I  can  do  is  to  quit,  go.  I've 
broken  down  at  everything  else.  It  won't  do  to  break  down 
at  this — stay  aimlessly  on — make  love  to  you — fasten  my 
wrecked  life  on  yours.  And  if  I  look  at  you  much  longer — 

Again  the  bell. 

"You'd  better  answer  it,"  she  said.  And  added,  "You've 
made  me  walk." 

He  clapped  a  hand  over  the  transmitter.  "Queer,"  he 
said.  "It's  Amme.  Wants  me  to  go  to  a  Mr.  Quakers'  house 
at  once.  Seems  to  think  it's  important.  Nobody  else  will 
do."  He  listened  again,  then  replied  with,  "All  right,  Mr. 
Amme.  I'll  be  over.  .  .  .  Yes,  at  once." 

He  came  to  the  door  now. 

"Did  he  say  what  it  was  ?"  she  asked,  fingering  the  book. 

"No.  Something  about  a  serious  conference.  I — I  think 
the  best  thing  would  be  to  say  good-by." 

He  stood  over  her.  She  didn't  look  up.  He  turned,  hesi- 
tated, listened  vainly  for  a  sound  from  her,  finally  walked 
out  and  down  the  stairs. 

The  sound,  when  it  came,  failed  to  reach  his  ears.  It 
was  a  sob. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE 
Oswald  Qualters  Undertakes  to  Close  In 

AM  ME,  more  cautious  than  Will  Appleby,  wouldn't  trust 
his  news  to  the  telephone.    He  hurried  over  to  Qual- 
ters'  house. 

"The  time  has  come  to  close  down  on  that  chap,"  he  said, 
when  the  library  door  was  safely  shut. 

"I  hardly  think  so.  There  are  reports  still  to  come  to 
me.  I  haven't  even  his  real  name  yet." 

"Can't  wait  for  it.    He's  got  into  the  safe." 

Quakers  was  lighting  a  cigar.    He  glanced  up-  sharply, 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

Amme  told  him. 

Quakers  smoked  and  considered.  After  a  short  while, 
chatting  easily  on  other  topics,  he  reached  for  his  tele- 
phone. 

"Calling  Harvey  O'Rell,"  he  explained. 

Mr.  O'Rell  was  not  at  home.  The  Golf  Club  was  sug- 
gested. Finally  he  was  found  at  the  Town  Club. 

"Oh,  Harvey,"  said  Quakers  then,  "a  little  problem  has 
come  up.  Hop  in  your  car  and  drive  around  to  my  place. 

Yes,  right  away.  .  .  .  Excuse  yourself, 
then.  I  need  you  here.  It  won't  keep.  .  .  .  Con- 
cerns the  papers  in  Jim  Cantey's  safe.  The  one  at  his 
house.  .  .  .  All  right.  Come  right  along." 

It  wasn't  customary  to  order  Harvey  O'Rell  about  like 
that.  Amme's  keen,  dry  little  face  exhibited  surprise  and 
curiosity  which  Quakers  met  with  only  a  faint  smile. 

When  O'Rell  came,  Quakers  left  Amme  to  call  up  the 
young  man  known  as  Stafford,  trying  his  boarding-house 
first,  then  the  Cantey  home. 

He  showed  his  guest  into  a  reception  room  and  closed 
the  doors. 

181 


182  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

O'Rell  watched  him  guardedly. 

"Bit  of  a  scrape,  Harvey,"  said  the  host  easily.  "Our 
young  friend  has  fascinated  Miriam  Cantey  and  got  into 
the  safe  up  there.  He  took  some  of  Jim's  old  papers  to 
his  boarding-house  this  evening,  in  a  strong  box  of  Jim 
Cantey's.  It's  no  time  to  stop  at  trifles.  You  can't  afford 
to  let  him  keep  those  papers." 

Their  eyes  met.  O'Rell,  physically  big  and  strong,  con- 
sidered the  rather  dapper  lawyer. 

"Why  do  you  include  me?"  he  asked  bruskly. 

"Harvey,"  Qualters  replied,  "better  drop  it.  I  have  the 
facts." 

"What  facts?" 

"For  one  thing,  a  curious  little  document  involving  you 
and  Tim  Maclntyre  in  a  straight  bribe  of  ten  thousand 
dollars." 

Again,  eye  to  eye,  they  weighed  each  other. 

O'Rell  was  the  first  to  turn  away.  "Well  ?"  he  remarked, 
quietly  enough. 

"I  want  you  to  go  straight  to  Tim,  now,  and  order  him 
to  get  that  box  back." 

"Any  suggestions  as  to  the  method  ?"  There  was  a  trace 
of  sarcasm  in  O'Rell's  voice. 

"It's  easy  enough.  Have  one  of  his  precious  police  cap- 
tains send  a  porch-climber  around.  Tim's  got  thugs  that 
would  kill  you  for  fifteen  dollars  and  call  it  a  pretty  fair 
day.  Don't  let  him  give  you  a  word  of  nonsense.  lie's 
got  to  get  that  box  and  deliver  it  here  to  me  by  ten  to-night. 
Meantime,  I'll  hold  this  Stafford  here.  And  I  want  you  to 
send  Tim  around.  Tell  him  to  come  to  the  side  door.  Bet- 
ter get  back  as  soon  as  you  can,  yourself." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  to  Stafford  ?" 

"Break  him.     I'll  do  that  for  you." 

O'Rell  said,  "Very  well.    I'll  see  Tim." 

Qualters  detained  him  a  moment ;  found  that  Stafford  had 
been  located  at  the  Cantey  home,  and  was  on  his  way ;  then 
sent  him  forth. 

He  and  Amme  then  smoked  and  waited  in  the  study.    He 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  183 

employed  himself  writing  a  note  in  pencil,  which  he  sealed 
in  an  envelope,  addressed  to  Senator  Painter,  stamped,  and 
slipped  into  his  pocket.  It  read : 

"My  dear  Senator: 

"It's  working  out  more  rapidly  than  I've  dared  hope. 
I've  got  both  Maclntyre  and  O'Rell  where  I  want  them. 
O'Rell  was  the  real  stumbling  block.  I  think  I  can  promise 
you  that  very  shortly  now  the  remains  of  the  Cantey 
Machine  will  be  in  our  hands. 

"Q" 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  Stafford  was  announced. 
Quakers  sent  down  word  for  him  to  wait. 

Another  quarter-hour  passed.  Quakers  talked  lightly  of 
this  and  that.  Amme  grew  even  quieter,  and  watched  his 
host.  He  knew  the  power  of  the  man.  "Old  Painter's 
right  eye,"  Jim  Cantey  had  called  him,  a  year  or  so  before 
he  died.  But  this  chatty  side  was  interesting.  A  facile 
person,  clearly ;  with  a  sure  light  hand ! 

O'Rell  came  up  the  stairs ;  grave,  silent.  He  gave  Qual- 
ters  a  slight  inclination  of  the  head.  It  was  report  enough. 

"The  man's  down-stairs,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Quakers,  "I  know."  He  rose  now,  laid  down 
his  cigar,  for  a  moment  considered  the  room  critically; 
then  he  drew  out  a  chair  to  the  center  of  the  room,  not  too 
near  the  table-desk,  turned  out  the  wall  lights  behind  it, 
drew  two  other  chairs  nearly  in  a  line  with  his  own,  backs 
to  the  mantel,  and  switched  on  the  other  lamps  on  this  same 
side  of  the  room,  so  that  a  strong  light  would  fall  on  the 
occupant  of  the  single  chair.  He  even  tilted  a  little  the 
shade  of  the  desk-lamp,  throwing  that  light  glaringly  on  the 
wall  behind  and  above  the  single  chair,  about  where  the 
unfortunate  young  man's  eyes  would  be. 

Then  he  rang,  and  said  to  the  answering  servant,  "Ask 
Mr.  Stafford  to  step  up  here." 

The  young  man,  stepping  hesitatingly  forward  against 
the  light,  impressed  all  three  as  looking  distinctly  seedy  and 


184  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

not  overstrong.  And  each  in  his  own  way  wondered  what 
on  earth  Bob  could  have  been  thinking  of.  He  was  any- 
thing but  a  businesslike  young  fellow;  lacked  address; 
appeared  to  be  confused,  glancing  from  one  to  another  of 
the  three  inscrutable  men  before  him. 

"I'm  Mr.  Qualters,"  said  the  central  one  of  these.  "You've 
met  Mr.  Amme.  And  this  is  Mr.  O'Rell." 

"I've  met  Mr.  O'Rell,  too,"  said  the  man. 

The  general  manager  of  County  Railways  ignored  thi.s 
little  thrust.  If  it  was  a  thrust.  Very  likely  it  wasn't.  The 
man  didn't  look  as  if  he  were  capable  of  thrusting.  He 
stood  in  a  rather  awkward  position;  shifted  his  feet;  took 
off  his  glasses  and  then  had  to  hunt  from  pocket  to  pocket 
for  his  handkerchief. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Quakers  sharply,  indicating  the  chair 
in  the  light. 

The  man  glanced  at  it,  then  at  the  row  against  the  man- 
tel. His  sensitive  mouth  twitched  a  very  little.  Then  he 
sat  down,  like  a  tired  person,  settling  back  and  shading  his 
eyes  with  his  hand. 

The  three  took  the  other  chairs.  Their  faces  were  shad- 
owed, but  he  could  feel  their  hard  eyes  on  him. 

Then,  cutting  through  the  silence,  came  the  sharp  voice 
jpf  Mr.  Quakers. 

"What  is  your  name?" 

Calverly  sat  motionless. 

"Come !    Out  with  it !    We  want  the  truth !" 

Calverly  weakly  shifted  his  position.  It  was  suddenly 
tfifficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  keep  the  old  lie  going.  He 
moistened  his  lips. 

"Perhaps  you  don't  know  your  own  name!" 

Calverly  moved  a  hand ;  it  might  have  been  in  protest. 

''Will  you  tell  us  what  you  call  yourself,  then?" 

Calverly  looked  at  them  from  under  his  shading  hand.  He 
'f«lt  himself  recovering.  The  wait  down-stairs  had  been 
trying.  And  Mr.  Quakers  had,  for  a  moment,  taken  his 
breath  away.  Then  the  arrangement  of  chairs  and  lights 
had  been  so  flatly  hostile.  He  thought  of  the  Inquisition. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  185 

But  he  was  swiftly  recovering;  he  felt  it,  and  drew  a  long 
breath.  The  little  scene  with  Miriam  had  curiously,  unex- 
pectedly, put  heart  into  him.  He  wouldn't  see  her  again; 
would  leave  town,  if  it  came  to  that;  but  he  knew  deeply 
that  she  wanted  him  to  go  on.  Now  that  the  scene  was 
over,  he  recalled  every  vivid  instant  of  it.  She  had  all  but 
put  her  life  in  his  hands.  It  wouldn't  do  ...  still,  she 
had !  Sitting  down-stairs  there,  alone,  it  had  begun  to  come 
clear  to  him  and  give  him  strength. 

Oswald  Quakers  was  an  extremely  astute  man.  He  was 
more  than  equal  to  most  of  the  men  he  met.  He  knew  their 
desires,  their  evasions,  their  self-justifications,  sensed  their 
strength  or  weakness,  could  usually,  in  a  lightning  calcula- 
tion that  was  partly  intuition,  partly  clear  brain,  estimate 
their  price.  All  these  others  were  deeply  involved  in  the 
fight  for  profits  or  for  office.  It  was  so  absurdly  easy  to 
see  what  they  wanted.  But  this  young  man  puzzled  him. 
Not  seriously;  he  was  sure  he  could  break  him;  still  the 
fellow  was  elusive,  didn't  readily  place  himself  in  Quakers' 
mind.  That  there  could  be  such  a  thing  in  life  as  a  seedy 
youngster  who  didn't  want  anything  in  the  world  that 
wealth  could  give,  whose  one  dream  was  to  recover  firmly 
the  great  gi  ft  he  had  lost,  was,  in  some  some  degree — at  the 
moment,  at  least — beyond  Quakers.  Such  a  thought  didn't 
occur  to  him. 

This  fact  was  Calverly's  strength.  He  sensed  it,  gripped 
it.  These  men  were  after  him  with  a  gun ;  that  much  was 
clear  from  the  very  way  they  sat,  bent  their  black  looks  on 
him.  Well,  he  wouldn't  give  them  much  satisfaction.  Very 
likely  the  jig  was  up.  They  had  him.  They  meant  pitilessly 
to  expose  him.  But  he  hardly  cared.  The  jig  was  up  any- 
way. They  couldn't  expose  him  to  Miriam  Cantey.  For 
she  knew.  And  what  else  mattered ! 

He  sat  up  straight ;  dropped  his  hand  and  faced  the  light ; 
then  abruptly  rose. 

The  three  started  apprehensively. 

"I'll  just  turn  this  a  little,"  he  said,  in  an  explanatory 
voice,  and  moved  the  desk-lamp. 


186  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

Then  standing  opposite  them,  looking  down,  his  mouth 
twisted  in  a  wry,  slightly  self-conscious  smile: 

"What's  it  all  about?"  he  asked.  "You  asked  me  to  come 
— I  came.  Now  you  put  me  in  the  witness  chair  and  turn 
your  lights  on  me.  What's  the  idea  ?" 

"Sit  where  you  like,"  said  Quakers  bruskly.  "What  is 
your  name  ?  Will  you  tell  us  that  ?" 

"I'm  trying  to  think  up  some  reason  why  I  should  tell 
you  anything." 

"You  call  yourself  Hugh  Stafford." 

.     Calverly  couldn't,  just  then,  have  uttered  that  name  him- 
self, but  he  bowed.    He  could  do  that,  barely. 

Qualters  leaned  forward  on  the  table. 

"Who  sent  you  here,  anyway?" 

The  only  reply  was  that  same  almost  contemptuous  smile. 

"Answer  that,  please!    Who  sent  you  here?" 

"Nobody." 

"Then  why  are  you  here?" 

No  answer. 

"You  must  be  aware,  Mr. — well,  to  save  discussion  I'll 
call  you  Stafford — you  must  be  aware  that  a  man  who  uses 
a  false  name  to  worm  himself  into  the  confidence  of — " 

"Wait,  please;  I've  wormed  myself  nowhere.  If  you 
mean  the  Cantey  biography,  Mr.  Listerly  offered  me  that 
job.  I'd  never  heard  of  it.  I  took  it  because  I  needed  the 
money." 

"Oh,  you  needed  it?" 

"Yes."     His  color  was  rising.    "I  needed  it." 

"The  pay  is  thirty-five  dollars  a  week,  I  believe." 

"Perhaps — well — yes,  it  is." 

"And  you  had  no  money — nothing  else?" 

"No,  I  didn't.  Though  that  might  be  thought  my  own 
business." 

"Yours,  and  ours." 

"My  business  has  been  with  Mr.  Listerly.  Why  isn't  he 
here?" 

"Two  of  the  three  trustees  of  the  Cantey  Estate  are  here. 
You  tell  me  you  had  no  money.  You  needed  this  thirty- 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  187. 

five  dollars  a  week.  Yet,  through  Mr.  Listerly,  you  are  pro- 
posing to  give  twenty  thousand  dollars  outright  toward  the 
public  baths.  How  about  that?" 

Miriam's  chair  was  still  before  the  narrow  door  when 
Miss  Russell  unexpectedly  returned. 

"You  needn't  have  hurried  back,"  said  Miriam,  in  a 
breathless  voice. 

"I  had  nowhere  particular  to  go.  Wouldn't  you  like  to 
go  to  bed  now,  Miss  Cantey?" 

There  was  a  silence.  Miss  Russell  came  briskly  in ;  stood 
near. 

"Shan't  I  put  you  to  bed,  Miss  Cantey?" 

"No-o.    No!" 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  be  tired." 

Miriam  seemed  not  to  hear  this.  She  looked  tired  now. 
Her  eyes  were  brighter  than  normal.  Miss  Russell  watched 
her  hands  and  thought  her  very  nervous. 

"Carry  me  in  there,  please  1" 

"Where,  Miss  Cantey?" 

"Into  the  study,  of  course !"  Yes,  she  was  nervous.  "Put 
me  in  the  big  chair,  between  the  desk  and  the  safe." 

"I  really  think  you'd  better—" 

"I  didn't  ask  you  what  you  thought.  Please  do  as  I  tell 
you!" 

It  was  not  like  her  to  speak  irritably.  The  nurse,  as  she 
obeyed,  decided  that  things  were  going  on  very  fast. 

"Now  leave  me,  please !" 

"But  really,  Miss  Cantey—" 

"Please !    And  shut  the  hall  door." 

The  nurse  went  out.  Miriam  settled  back  and  closed 
her  eyes.  He  had  carried  her  to  this  chair.  She  dwelt  on 
the  memory.  She  felt  again  his  strong  young  arms  about 
her.  The  color,  as  she  indulged  the  dream,  flowed  again 
into  her  wan  cheeks.  She  had  been  like  a  dead  girl.  But 
he  had  brought  life.  He  had  broken  through  the  walls  of 
habit  that  had  shut  in  her  soul  and  let  the  warm  light  in. 
And  she  had  reached  out  to  him.  What  was  a  little  pain 


188  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

now!  What  were  the  accidents  of  wealth  and  reputation! 
The  feelings  stirring  in  her  now  were  not  like  the  self  she 
had  been ;  they  were  more,  perhaps,  like  the  father  she  had 
worshipped — elemental,  divinely  reckless. 

He  wouldn't  come  back.  He  would  struggle  on,  suffer  on, 
without  her.  But  he  loved  her.  Her  delicate  lips  curved  in 
a  smile.  He  loved  her! 

She  hadn't  told  Miss  Russell  when  to  come  back.  And 
she  could  never,  alone,  reach  the  bell.  Her  fall  of  the 
afternoon  told  her  that.  Even  if  the  doctors  had  been 
wrong,  her  old  injury  healed,  the  supposed  paralysis  but  a 
bad  habit,  there  were  muscles  to  be  trained,  a  new  habit 
to  be  built  up.  She  would  have  to  learn  to  walk.  Every 
day  she  would  try  it  a  little,  fight  it  out,  work  free  of  nurses, 
doctors,  housekeepers;  begin,  at  last,  to  live.  .  .  .  The 
recklessness  grew.  A  new  magic  had  touched  and  quick- 
ened her  spirit.  She  knew  now  how  terribly  alone  she  had 
lived  since  her  father's  death.  In  a  way  the  new  life  would 
be  harder.  All  this  care  had  brought  her,  she  felt,  to  a  sort 
of  paralysis  of  the  mind.  It  wasn't  to  be  easy  to  throw  that 
off.  She  would  have  to  take  up  work,  some  sort. 

What  if  Miss  Russell  shouldn't  come  back!  What  if  she 
•were  to  be  left  here  all  night,  in  a  chair!  Why  not!  She 
found  the  notion  thrilling.  She  felt  like  a  child  who  runs 
away. 

The  telephone  bell  broke  in  on  her  reverie. 

She  stared  at  the  instrument,  her  pulse  leaping. 

It  stood  on  the  desk,  more  than  an  arm's  length  away. 

She  got  out  of  the  chair,  reached  for  the  desk,  fell  beside 
it,  but  somehow  drew  herself  along,  reached  the  instrument, 
lifted  it  down,  and  sitting  in  a  heap  against  the  desk,  put 
the  receiver  to  her  ear. 

Mrs.  Bentley  was  on  the  wire,  down-stairs. 

A  woman  was  speaking  to  her.  Miriam  caught  the  words 
— "Miss  Daw,  Miss  Margie  Daw,  of  the  News.  Is  Mr.  Staf- 
ford there?" 

"No-no,  I  think  not,"  said  Mrs.  Bentley. 

Miriam  heard  her  own  voice  then,  unexpectedly  firm  and 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  189 

strong.  "Ill  answer,  Mrs.  Bentley,"  it  said — "Xes,  Miss 
Cantey.  Never  mind  now.  I'll  answer." 

There  was  a  click.  Mrs.  Bentley  was  off  the  wire. 
Miriam  smiled  in  sheer  excitement  at  the  thought  of  the 
stupefaction  she  must  feel. 

"Yes,  Miss  Daw,"  she  said,  "this  is  Miss  Cantey  speak- 
ing. Of  the  News,  you  said?  .  .  .  Mr.  Stafford  isn't 
here  now.  I  think  we  could  reach  him  if  it  is  important." 

''It's  pretty  important,"  said  Miss  Daw.  "We  got 
word  a  little  while  ago  that  Mr.  Stafford's  room  was  broken 
into  this  evening,  and  I  came  right  over.  I'm  speaking  from 
his  boarding-house.  The  case  has  a  queer  look.  A  second- 
story  man  got  in  at  one  of  the  side  windows  while  every  one 
was  down-stairs  and  on  the  porch.  He  rummaged  through 
two  or  three  of  the  rooms  on  the  third  floor,  but  took  noth- 
ing. Finally  he  found  Mr.  Stafford's  room  and  just  about 
tore  it  to  pieces — pulled  out  every  drawer,  turned  up  the 
carpet,  took  the  mattress  off  the  bed.  He  must  have  been 
looking  for  something  he  didn't  find,  for  there  was  a  little 
money  in  the  top  bureau  drawer.  He  didn't  touch  that. 
He  was  creeping  away  when  a  maid  met  him  in  the  hall. 
He  knocked  her  down  and  escaped  by  the  back  stairs. 
That's  all  we  know  at  present." 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Daw,"  said  Miriam.  "I'll  try  to  get 
word  to  him." 

The  telephone  sank  to  her  lap.  She  ?at,  bewildered.  The 
strong  box  came  to  mind.  He  had  brought  it  back.  It  was 
in  the  safe.  Though  surely  .  .  . 

She  wondered  who  this  Miss  Daw  was;  why  she  should 
exhibit  such  interest. 

Her  father  had  always  kept  the  telephone  directory  hang- 
ing at  the  end  of  the  desk.  She  felt  for  it ;  it  was  there. 
She  looked  through;  found  Mr.  Quakers'  number. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 

Concerned  with  the  Young  Man  Whose  Price  Wasn't 
Listed  Down-Tou-n 

IN  Quakers'  study,  Caverly  was  again  on  his  feet. 
"I'm  not  on  trial!"  he  was  crying.  "I  came  here  as  a 
matter  of  courtesy,  because  Mr.  Amme  asked  me.  And  now 
you  three  gentlemen" — he  paused  an  instant  on  the  word — 
"are  cross-examining  me,  hounding  me,  trying  to  discredit 
me!" 

"And  succeeding,"  said  Quakers. 

"Not  at  all !    Why—" 

"You  have  refused  to  tell  us  your  name,  your  place  of 
birth,  even  your  residence  before  you  came  to  this  city.  You 
have  told  us  that  this  check  for  twenty  thousand  dollars  was 
a  gift  that  on  personal  grounds  you  couldn't  accept,  but  you 
don't  tell  us  who  gave  it  or  why.  Now  let  me  ask  you  once 
more:  Is  Stafford  your  real  name,  or  is  it  not." 

Calverly  walked  the  floor.  Three  pairs  of  cold  practical 
eyes  followed  him,  to  and  fro.  The  very  sound  of  that  false 
name  disgusted  him.  He  kept  silent ;  dropped,  finally,  into 
the  chair. 

"You  can't  answer  that  question  ?" 

He  shook  his  head  wearily.    "I  won't,"  he  replied. 

"Very  well.  Now — about  three  years  ago  you  stopped 
for  a  time  at  a  rather  unpleasant  little  hotel  in  New  York 
known  as  the  'Kelly  Square.'  What  were  you  doing  there?" 

Calverly  started  and  stared. 

"I  see  you  haven't  forgotten  that.  I  know,  of  course, 
that  you  weren't  using  the  name  Stafford  then." 

He  sat  motionless.  One  fact  stood  out;  if  they  had  the 
faintest  suspicion  of  his  name  they  wouldn't  beat  about  the 
bush  like  this.  He  really  hardly  cared  now;  but  he  wouldn't 
help  them. 

190 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  191 

Impulsively  he  drew  his  chair  forward  to  the  table  and 
confronted  them. 

"I  think  you'd  better  tell  me  what  I'm  charged  with,"  he 
said.  "You're  not  acting  even  decently.  It's  unfair!  It's 
not  human !  You're  treating  me  as  if  I  were  a  common — " 

The  word  "criminal"  had  been  on  the  end  of  his  tongue, 
but  he  couldn't  say  it.  For  the  moment  his  wits  scattered. 
He  could  feel  his  color  rising. 

The  impassive  O'Rell  leaned  a  little  forward. 

"I'm  going  to  try  to  show  you  the  figure  you  make,"  he 
said.  "Just  as  we  see  it.  You  are  a  stranger  here.  You 
have  to-night  refused  to  tell  us  who  you  are,  where  you 
came  from,  why  you  are  here.  We  know  that  you  are  liv- 
ing under  an  assumed  name.  You  admit  that  you  need  the 
small  salary  paid  for  this  hack  work,  yet  you  are  giving 
away  a  large  sum  of  money.  Mr.  Amme  and  I  are  trustees 
of  the  Cantey  Estate,  and  can  not  forget  our  obligation  to 
protect  the  property  and  the  Cantey  name.  Looking  at  the 
matter  in  the  light  of  simple  common  sense — in  a  human 
light,  if  you  like  the  word — we  have  every  right  to  be  sus- 
picious of  you  and  to  object  to  your  presence  in  the  Cantey 
household.  More  than  this — and  now  I'm  going  to  touch  on 
a  very  difficult  matter — we,  particularly  Mr.  Amme  and  I, 
are  old  friends  of  the  family.  We  feel  deeply  responsible 
for  Miss  Cantey.  We  have  seen  her  grow  up  from  child- 
hood, then  a  beautiful  girl,  now  a  helpless  invalid.  We 
know  something  of  what  she  meant  to  her  father  during 
his  later  years." 

Calverly  felt  an  impulse  to  spring  up,  shout  them  down, 
forbid  them  so  much  as  to  mention  her  name.  But  what  he 
did  was  to  sit  very  still,  looking  down  at  the  desk.  He 
knew  he  couldn't  trust  his  voice. 

"Now  just  consider  what  has  occurred.  You  have — never 
mind  how ;  I  will  make  no  charges  on  that  count — you  have 
made  her  acquaintance,  there  in  the  house,  under  circum- 
stances of  some  intimacy.  You  haven't  hesitated  to  take 
full  advantage  of  this  situation.  You  have  gone  so  far  as 
to  carry  her  from  her  chair  into  the  study.  You  have  let 


192  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

her  open  for  you  her  father's  safe  and  put  in  your  hands 
some  of  his  private  papers." 

So  they  knew  all  that!  Calverly's  throat  was  dry.  He 
moistened  his  lips. 

"Whatever  or  whoever  you  may  be,  I  can  see  clearly 
enough  that  you  are  a  man  of  imagination.  I  think  you 
understand  what  I  am  getting  at.  Whatever  your  motives, 
you  have  put  yourself  in  the  position  of  an  unscrupulous 
adventurer — Wait!  I  am  not  now  calling  you  that.  I'm 
calling  you  nothing.  But  there  you  are!  Now  just  as  a 
matter  of  common  human  decency,  don't  you  think  you'd 
better  be  frank  with  us  ?" 

He  reflected  for  a  long  time.    They  watched  him. 

"Perhaps  I  had,"  he  said.  And  then,  as  they  settled  back 
and  glanced  at  one  another,  added — "But  not  quite  in  the 
way  you  expect." 

O'Rell  had  talked  convincingly,  almost  kindly.  But  with 
evident  reservations.  They  were  still  gunning  for  him. 
They  wanted  something  very  definite,  something  more  than 
what  they  called  frankness.  That  quick  glance,  passing 
from  man  to  man,  undid  most  of  what  O'Rell  had  accom- 
plished, stiffened  him. 

"First,  as  to  your  charges.  I  think  I  may  safely  call  them 
that." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Quakers,  lighting  a  fresh  cigar.  "They're 
charges." 

"As  to  who  I  am,  then,  all  I'll  say  now  is,  it  really  doesn't 
matter.  I  come  from  nowhere.  I  represent  nobody.  My 
interest  isn't  in  anything  you  gentlemen  could  offer  me. 
Certainly  not  money.  I've  thrown  that  away,  before  now. 
About  this  twenty  thousand  dollars  I  told  the  literal  truth. 
It  was  the  gift  of  a  connection  with  whom  I  will  have  noth- 
ing to  do.  As  there  were  some  difficulties  in  the  way  of 
sending  it  back,  I  simply  gave  it  away.  I  don't  want  ever  to 
hear  of  it  again." 

Mr.  Amme  spoke  now,  for  the  first  time— dry,  sharp. 

"May  I  ask  what  it  is  that  you're  interested  in,  Mr. — Mr. 
Stafford?"  he  asked. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  193 

Calverly  glanced  at  him.  "That's  not  an  easy  question  to 
answer — " 

"Oh,  then—" 

"Wait,  please!  Perhaps  I'd  better  say  that  I'm  interested 
if  in  anything,  in  the  art  of  writing."  And  noting  the  puz- 
zled expression  on  Amme's  neat  little  face,  he  added,  "I 
recognize  that  you  may  find  it  a  little  hard  to  believe  that.'' 

"Oh,  no,"  put  in  Quakers  easily,  "we're  capable  of  un- 
derstanding that.  Go  on." 

"Mr.  Listerly  offered  me  this  job.  I  didn't  ask  for  it— 
didn't  know  anything  about  it.  I  didn't  think  at  first  I'd 
care  for  it.  But  I  had  to  do  something.  As  a  newspaper 
man  I  was  a  failure.  They  didn't  like  my  work.  So  I 
began  at  this.  Then  a  curious  thing  happened." 

He  paused.  O'Rell  mumbled  something  that  sounded 
like,  "Very  curious,"  and  hitched  forward. 

"Yes,"  said  Calverly  simply.  "In  the  course  of  my  work 
I  met  Miss  Cantey.  We  spoke  of  her  father.  I  told  her— 
pretty  frankly,  doubtless— that  most  of  the  standard  biog- 
raphies seem  to  me  untrue  to  human  character  and  a  false 
influence  in  the  training  of  the  young." 

"You'll  admit  that  discretion  has  its  uses."  This  from 
Amme. 

The  young  man  glanced  at  him,  said  "Sometimes  I  won- 
der," and  pressed  on.  He  had  seemed  calm  enough.  But 
now  the  inner  excitement,  the  nerve  tension  that  would  in- 
evitably cause  such  stable  business  men  and  lawyers  as  these 
to  classify  him  as  an  irresponsible  egotist,  became  evident. 
It  was  a  part  of  him ;  he  couldn't  conceal  it  long. 

"Miss  Cantey  showed  me  her  father's  last  request,  writ- 
ten in  his  own  hand.  It  bore  on  this  matter  of  the  biography. 
I  think  I  can  remember  part  of  his  language.  He  said:  'If 
you  feel  that  you  can,  have  them  tell  the  truth  about*  me. 
Don't  for  a  moment  forget  that  they'll  fight  like  rats.  Don't 
let  Amme  have  a  hand  in  it,  or  O'Rell,  or  those.  Perhaps 
Listerly  would  help.  lie's  a  trimmer,  but  he's  not  hard 
shell,  like  the  others.'  " 

He  threw  it  at  them,  and  stared  them  down. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"That,"  he  said,  "was  what  he  thought  of  you  gentlemen." 

Amme  knit  his  brows.  O'Rell's  face  clouded.  Quakers 
laughed  softly. 

''Miss  Cantey  knew  my  views.  They  were,  are,  the  same 
as  her  father's.  The  neat  wire  baskets  of  colorless  docu- 
ments you  set  out  for  me,  Mr.  Amme,  were  just  what  he 
didn't  want  and  what  I  don't  want.  From  the  way  you're 
going  at  me,  all  of  you,  I  see  that  you're  bent  on  doing  what 
he  said  you'd  do.  You're  fighting  like  rats.  That's  why 
you  brought  me  here  to-night.  And  now  we  seem  to  be 
facing  the  question,  are  Mr.  Cantey's  wishes  to  be  respected 
or  are  they  not  ?  Is  the  last  great  purpose  of  Mr.  Cantey's 
life  to  be  carried  out,  or  not?" 

O'Rell  was  leaning  heavily  on  the  desk. 

"Have  you  seen  all  the  papers  in  that  safe?" 

"No." 

This  reply  brought  momentary  relief  to  the  general  man- 
ager of  County  Railways.  He  said,  more  easily : 

"What  you  say  about  Mr.  Cantey's  last  wishes  is  only  an 
assertion."  This  brought  a  nod  from  Amme.  "You  never 
knew  the  man.  We  were  his  intimates  for  many  years. 
We  know  a  good  deal  more  about  his  attitude  toward  life 
than  you." 

"I  tell  you  I've  read  his  own  words." 

O'Rell  waved  a  disgusted  hand. 

Quakers  now  tapped  on  the  table  with  his  pencil. 

"You  talk  rather  well,"  he  said,  "whoever  you  are.  But 
we've  given  about  time  enough  to  this.  If  we  choose,  we 
can  make  you  pretty  unhappy  in  this  town.  We  have  about 
evidence  enough  now  to  put  you  away  for  a  little  term  in 
prison.  We  may  yet  decide  to  do  that.  Using  an  assumed 
name  to  get  access  to  important  business  secrets  isn't  nice. 
Doesn't  look  well.  But  first  I'm  willing  to  give  you  a  chance 
to  get  quietly  out  of  town.  What  do  you  say  ?" 

"I  don't  know  as  I  can  subscribe  to  that,  Oswald,"  said 
O'Rell.  "I'd  like  to  know  what  other  papers  he's  read 
there." 

Calverly  looked  at  him,  and  as  he  looked,  his  spirits,  which 


195 

had  risen  a  little  in  the  heat  of  the  quiet  but  intense  con- 
flict, sank  again.  They  were  the  world,  these  men.  And 
what  was  he  ?  It  was  the  old  trouble  all  over  again,  like  his 
two  pitilessly  illuminating  experiences  in  the  News  office. 
Truth  wasn't  wanted.  There  were  too  many  established 
properties  to  protect.  He  wondered  a  little  at  his  own 
vanity — he  called  it  that —  in  withholding  the  fact  that  he 
had  already  given  up  the  Cantey  job.  Why  bother?  What 
difference  did  anything  make,  now? 

A  telephone  bell  rang.  He  listened  indifferently  as  Qual- 
ters  took  up  the  receiver.  Then  he  started,  all  alert.  For 
be  distinctly  heard  a  woman's  voice  say — the  odd  grating 
voice  that  can  sometimes  be  heard  at  some  distance  from 
the  telephone: 

"Is  Mr.  Stafford  there?" 

There  was  only  one  woman  who  knew  where  he  might 
be.  There  was  only  one  woman  in  his  heart. 

He  heard  Qualters  say,  pleasantly,  casually: 

"No.    There's  no  such  person  here." 

He  sprang  forward;  reached  for  the  receiver,  jerked  it 
and  Quakers'  hand  away  from  the  hook,  shouted,  "Yes,  I 
am  here!" 

Quakers  relinquished  the  instrument,  with  a  shrug. 

Calverly  forgot  the  rich  room  and  the  hard  hostile  men 
in  it.  The  voice  was  Miriam  Cantey's.  Suddenly  he  felt 
her  presence ;  he  could  see  her  eyes,  he  could  feel  her  in  his 
arms.  All  his  firmness  melted  away. 

She  was  saying: 

"I'd  rather  not  say  much  over  the  wire.  But  they've 
broken  into  your  room — at  your  boarding-house — I  believe 
they  were  after  father's  papers.  Could  you— could  you 
come  up  here?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "I  will.    Very  soon." 

"I'm  in  the  study." 

"All  right." 

"I'm  wondering — I'll  tell  you  all  about  the  other  matter 
i— but  I'm  wondering  if  you  feel  as  I'm  beginning  to — that 


196  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

we  oughtn't  to — well,  let  ourselves  be  beaten.  Father  wanted 
it  so.  Oughtn't  we  to  fight  it  through?" 

"It's— I— it's  difficult." 

"I  know.  Either  way.  We  must  try  to  think  it  out.  I'll 
wait  here  in  the  study.  We  can  talk  better  here.  The  house 
is  quiet." 

There  was  a  heavy  uncertain  step  in  the  hall.  The  door 
burst  open,  and  the  Honorable  Tim  Maclntyre  stood  before 
them,  hat  awry,  face  flushed,  straggling  lock  of  black  hair 
hanging  low  on  the  Napoleonic  forehead. 

"It's  not  there!"  he  cried.  "And  Max  O'Rell !  if 
you  think  you  can  make  a  monkey  out  o*  me — taking 
chances  like  that — " 

O'Rell  muttered  an  oath,  sprang  up,  tried  to  crowd  the 
excited  mayor  straight  back  out  the  door.  The  heavy  odor 
of  liquor  pervaded  the  room. 

Calverly  only  half-heard.  Miriam's  voice  was  at  his  ear. 
He  couldn't  catch  what  she  was  saying. 

"Just  a  moment,"  he  said,  and  placed  a  hand  over  the 
transmitter. 

The  Honorable  Tim  had  by  this  time  eluded  O'Rell  and 
was  plunging  toward  the  desk. 

Amme  had  risen,  and  was  pulling  nervously  at  his  neatly 
trimmed  beard.  Quakers  sat  tipped  back  in  his  chair,  bal- 
ancing a  paper  knife  across  a  steady  forefinger,  looking  on 
with  much  the  expression  he  might  have  exhibited  at  a 
good  play. 

Calverly  himself  was  up  now;  he  backed  around  the  desk, 
still  holding  the  telephone. 

Mayor  Tim  banged  a  fist  on  the  desk. 

"There's  a  limit  to  what  I'll  do  for  you,  O'Rell !  When 
it  comes  to  coarse  work — " 

Quakers  caught  his  inflamed  eye,  and  with  the  paper 
knife  indicated  the  young  man  at  the  telephone. 

Maclntyre  knit  his  brows;  drew  himself  up;  stared  in 
blank  confusion. 

Calverly  spoke  into  the  telephone.  "What  was  that?  I 
didn't  quite  catch  it.  Sorry." 


"I  can't  talk  now.     But  don't  worry.     I'll  come  soon." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  197 

"I  said — you  won't  be  long?" 

"Xo.    A  few  minutes.    Just  as  soon  as  I  can  manage." 

"What  was  all  that  noise  ?    You're  not  in  trouble  ?" 

"I'm  supposed  to  be.    I  don't  seem  to  care." 

"That's  good." 

The  mayor  was  bellowing,  "What's  he  doing  here  ?" 

For  a  moment  he  had  Calverly's  arm,  but  was  promptly 
shaken  oft".  Then  O'Rell  caught  him  and  pressed  him  toward 
the  door. 

"What  is  it?"  Thus  Miriam.  "I'm  getting  pretty  nerv- 
ou*.  I  wish  you  were  here." 

Calverly  chuckled.    "It's  the  burglar,  I  think,"  he  said. 

He  could  feel  Quakers'  cool  eyes  look  up,  at  this,  and 
study  him. 

Mayor  Tim  heard  it,  too,  and  came  plunging  back,  drag- 
ging O'Rell  after  him. 

Calverly  raised  an  elbow  to  ward  him  off. 

"I  can't  talk  now,"  he  said.  "This  is  bedlam.  But  don't 
worry.  I'll  come  soon." 

"I  think—" 

"What  was  that?    They're  making  so  much  noise." 

"I  think  I— need  you !" 

It  was  the  voice  of  love — tender,  frank  beyond  all  evasion. 

He  compressed  his  lips.  His  eyes  shone.  He  shook  his 
head  as  if  to  throw  off  the  ugly  world  that  pressed  him  so, 
and  held  the  telephone  jealously  away  from  the  hostile  ears 
that  surrounded  him. 

"I'll  come,"  he  said;  and  put  the  instrument  down. 

The  words  were  commonplace  enough,  hers  and  his,  but 
in  his  ears,  in  his  heart,  they  might  have  been  the  song  of 
unimaginable  angels. 

And  now,  dimly  at  first,  then  with  a  sobering  brain,  he  be- 
came aware  that  the  mayor  was  still  bellowing  at  him. 

Quakers  said,  "Oh,  keep  still,  Tim !" 

"But  he  used  an  ugly  word — a  vi'lent  word — an'  he'll 
apol'gize  ri'  now,  ri'  here!  I'm  th*  mayor  o'  this — • 
He  said  'burglar' !" 

Calverly  seated  himself  on  a  corner  of  the  de.-k. 


198  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"Well,"  he  asked,  "what  are  you?" 

The  mayor  again  drew  himself  up,  but  found  it  difficult 
to  hold  the  picture.  He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  frown  majes- 
tically. 

"It  seems  that  somebody  broke  into  my  room,"  said  Cal- 
verly.  "And  your  mayor  talks  as  if  he  knew  something 
about  it.  I  gather,  too,  that  Mr.  O'Rell  put  him  up  to  it. 
Well,  it  isn't  the  first  time  these  two  precious  birds  have 
shared  dirty  work.  There  was  the  County  Railways  melon. 
And  Mr.  Cantey  left  a  record  of  a  ten-thousand-dollar  bribe 
they  both  had  a  hand  in.  Some  years  back." 

This  brought  O'Rell  himself  to  Calverly's  side. 

"I've  taken  about  all  I  care  to  take  from  you,"  he  said 
roughly.  "Will  you  take  our  offer  and  leave  town  to-night, 
or  have  we  got  to  break  you  ?" 

Calverly  gravely  considered  this;  spread  his  hands. 

"I  think  I'll  tell  you,"  he  said,  musing  aloud. 

"Go  on,"  said  Quakers.    "Tell  us.     Sit  down,  Harvey." 

But  O'Rell  shook  his  head  and  stood  angrily  listening. 

The  mayor,  however,  found  an  armchair  helpful. 

"I  took  home  a  box  of  papers  from  Mr.  Cantey's  safe  this 
afternoon,"  said  Calverly.  "That  was  what  your  burglar 
was  after,  I  suppose.  But  I  took  them  back  this  evening. 
They're  in  the  safe  now." 

"Why  did  you  take  them  back  ?"  asked  Quakers. 

"Because  I  decided  not  to  go  on  with  the  work." 

"That's  interesting.     Why?" 

"I  don't  know  that  the  reasons  are  any  of  your  business," 

"Perhaps  not.    Go  on." 

"That's  all.    All  there  was." 

"Was  ?    Is  there  more  now  ?" 

"I  rather  think  so.    Yes,  it  begins  to  seem  so." 

"You're  considering  reopening  the  matter?" 

Calverly  gravely  bowed. 

"Writing  the  book  ?" 

He  bowed  again. 

"Why?" 

"Because  you're  all  a  lot  of  crooks!     Because  it's  the 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  199 

duty  of  somebody  to  expose  you.  Jim  Cantey  felt  that,  and 
was  willing  to  play  Sampson  to  get  it  done.  Oh,  God,  for  a 
little  truth,  a  little  decency !  I'm  not  much,  Heaven  knows  I 
but  at  least  I  may  be  a  vehicle  for  this  thing.  It's  got  to 
be  done." 

"Oswald,  how  long  are  you  going  to  stand  this!"  cried 
O'Rell. 

Quakers  raised  a  soothing  hand.  Almost  confidentially, 
very  quietly,  he  asked  of  Calverly. 

"Was  that  Miss  Cantey  that  called  you  ?" 

"I— well,  yes." 

"Sounded  like  her  voice.  You  realize,  of  course,  that 
you're  taking  advantage  of  her.  This  name  business  is  sure 
to  come  out.  They'll  have  to  call  you  a  fortune  hunter.  It's 
going  to  hurt  her." 

But  Calverly  merely  compressed  his  lips  again. 

A  moment  later,  though,  he  turned  on  O'Rell.  The  mayor 
was  growing  sleepy  and  didn't  matter. 

''Probably  I  ought  to  be  afraid  of  you,"  he  said,  "but  I 
don't  seem  to  be.  Do  what  you  like.  I  don't  care.  Of 
course  you  can  have  one  of  the  mayor's  friends  hit  me  over 
the  head.  Do  it  to-night,  if  you  like.  I'm  going  direct  to 
the  Canteys'  from  here.  A  little  later  I'll  be  walking  from 
there  to  my  boarding-house.  Fairly  early,  too,  as  I  imagine 
my  room'll  have  to  be  put  to  rights,  after  your  friend's 
visit." 

He  walked  out.  O'Rell  sprang  up;  but  Quakers  waved 
him  aside ;  said,  "Oh,  let  him  go !" 

Amme  excused  himself  then.  Amme  was  not  the  sort  of 
man  who  had  rough  contacts  with  life.  He  had  been 
spared  a  good  deal.  He  was  plainly  disturbed  now ;  a  little 
shocked.  Quakers  indulged  in  a  smile  over  him. 

O'Rell  helped  the  mayor  home.  Quakers  walked  out  with 
them  as  far  as  the  mail  box  on  the  corner. 

He  put  off  the  deeply  angry  O'Rell  with  a  quiet,  "We'll 
have  to  play  him  a  little.  That  book  isn't  published  yet. 
It  isn't  even  written.  There's  time  enough." 

When  they  were  gone,  an  oddly  comic  couple — the  mayor 


200  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

walking  wide,  the  general  manager  of  County  Railways  arm 
in  arm  with  him,  dragging  him  on,  soothing  him  in  the  mo- 
ments of  song — Quakers  took  a  letter  from  his  pocket  and 
dropped  it  into  the  box.  The  Cantey  financial  machine  was 
still  strong,  but  the  Cantey  political  machine  was  cracking 
badly,  was  about  gone.  Harvey  would  do  pretty  much  as 
he  was  told,  after  this.  It  had  been  quite  a  day  for  the 
Painter  interests.  .  .  .  Quaint  ideas  that  boy  had !  And 
a  queer  mystery  about  him!  .  .  .  Interesting! 

Calverly,  as  he  hurried  up  the  Hill,  believed  that  he  was 
thinking  about  the  biography.  So  intent  was  he  on  thinking 
about  it  that  he  muttered  aloud.  The  excitement  that  was 
steadily,  irresistibly  rising  within  him  he  couldn't  explain 
then.  He  had  no  outside  eye  on  it.  lie  knew,  yet  didn't 
know,  that  he  was  being  swept  along,  more  and  more  swiftly, 
to  his  emotional  Niagara. 

He  rang,  all  confusion ;  brushed  past  the  door  man  with 
the  slightly  raised  eyebrows;  ran  lightly,  quickly,  up  the 
stairs. 

The  study  door  was  closed.  He  paused  before  it.  His 
breath  was  quite  gone ;  his  heart  was  beating  uncontrollably 
high. 

The  book !    They  must  talk  about  that !     .     .    . 

She  said  she  would  be  in  the  study.  But  how  had  she 
managed  that  ? 

There  was  a  rustle  in  the  hall.  He  started ;  turned ;  saw 
a  woman  just  disappearing  through  a  doorway.  The  nurse, 
doubtless!  Miriam  trusted  her! 

With  an  all  but  overpowering  sensation  of  taking  an  ir- 
revocable step,  crossing  a  rubicon — fighting  impulses  to  stop 
longer,  get  his  head  clear,  think  it  out — he  opened  the  door, 
stepped  in  and  closed  it  softly  behind  him. 

There  was  Miriam,  a  filmy  white  heap,  on  the  floor  by  the 
desk,  leaning  wanly  against  it. 

He  sprang  forward,  saying  something — he  never  knew 
what — and  tenderly  lifted  her  in  his  arms. 

He  placed  her  in  the  big  chair  between  the  safe  and  the 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  201 

desk.  Her  hands  were  clinging  to  his  sleeve.  His  mind  was 
a  whirl  of  pure  feeling. 

"You  fell!"  he  was  murmuring. 

"That  was  nothing.    But  you  were  so  long !" 

"I  hurried." 

"I  know.    But  I  wanted  you  so  to  come." 

"You  wonderful  girl !" 

"Oh,  nof    Weak,  pitiful!    But  I'm  beginning!" 

"You'll  let  me  help  you  ?" 

"Oh-o-oh,  yes !" 

They  were  groping  for  each  other.  Very  gently  he  knelt 
close  at  her  side ;  drew  her  head  to  his  shoulder ;  kissed  her. 

"It  had  to  be,"  she  murmured. 

"Yes,  dear,  it  had  to  be.  ...  I'm  a  wreck  of  a 
man — " 

"No,  dear!" 

"But  such  as  I  am  my  life  is  yours.  It  would  be  so  easy 
to  die  for  you.  But  I  must  live  for  you.  I'm  beginning, 
too." 

Time  floated  by. 

Miss  Russell  stood  apologetically  in  the  doorway. 

They  looked  down  at  her  from  the  heights. 

"You  are  tired,  sweet,"  he  whispered,  "I'm  going  to  let 
her  take  you  to  bed." 

And  standing  beside  the  woman  of  his  heart  he  said: 
"Miss  Russell,  we  can  trust  your  discretion  for  the  present. 
An  announcement  will  be  made  later.  For  Miss  Cantey 
has  promised  to  be  my  wife." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 
Fat  Man's  Misery 

OSWALD  QUALTERS  came  down  the  elevator,  late  on 
the  following  afternoon,  paused  at  the  sidewalk  en- 
trance to  light  a  cigarette,  glanced  up  the  street,  and  beheld 
a  trim  young  woman  approaching  from  the  direction  of  the 
News  building.  She  wore  a  straight  blue  coat  with  side 
pockets,  man's  turnover  collar  and  four-in-hand  tie,  felt  hat 
pulled  down  over  an  almost  boy  like  face.  The  sight  of  her 
mildly  pleased  him ;  for  like  many  another  man  about  town 
(the  trite  phrase  described  Quakers  in  his  lighter  phase  of 
this  period)  he  had  an  eye  for  a  slim  figure.  Also  it  started 
his  quick  brain. 

He  greeted  her ;  walked  along  with  her. 

"You  don't  run  in  any  more  and  ask  me  questions,"  said 
he,  lightly. 

"I'm  doing  features  and  drammer  now." 

"That's  so.  I  think  I've  seen  some  of  your  things.  You're 
signing  them." 

"Oh,  yes !    Getting  to  have  quite  a  name." 

"Tell  me — was  there  a  fellow  named  Stafford  worked 
there  on  the  News  for  a  whi' 

"Not  long.    They  didn't  like  him.    He  wrote  well." 

"Hm !  Curious  thing.  Friends  of  mine  a  little  excited 
over  him.  He's  been  put  in  to  write  the  Cantey  bi- 
ography—" 

"Yes,  I'd  heard  that!" 

"And  they've  got  an  idea  that  he's  sailing  under  a  false 
name.  Know  anything  about  it?" 

"Not  a  thing." 

"Hm!  It  would  be  rather  a  mistake,  of  course,  to  turn 
the  wrong  man  loose  among  Mr.  Cantey 's  letters  and 
things." 

202 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  203 

"I  should  think  so.    This  is  my  corner." 

Quakers  lingered  a  moment  to  look  after  her.  Anywhere 
but  here  in  his  home  city  he  would  have  considered  taking 
her  out  to  dinner.  "Snappy  little  thing!"  he  mused.  But 
since  it  was  the  home  city  he  strolled  over  to  his  own  house. 

Margie  Daw  walked  briskly  around  the  block.  She  was 
strolling  toward  the  Nezi's  building,  a  little  later,  when  the 
plump  person  of  Abel  H.  Timothy  appeared — his  wide,  soft 
hat  tipped  back  on  his  large  head,  an  unlighted  cigar  in  a 
corner  of  his  wide  mouth.  She  had  avoided  him  lately. 
But  she  had  heard  him  about  the  office,  talking  and  laughing 
more  loudly  than  of  old,  making  a  show  of  cheery  inde- 
pendence. For  her  ears,  of  course.  She  studied  him  now 
with  a  feeling  of  quick  nervous  repugnance,  wondering  how 
she  could  ever  have  fancied  him ;  he  looked  so  fat — she 
noted  the  deep  wrinkles  where  his  coat  pulled  across  his 
middle,  and  the  spots  on  the  blue  cloth.  And  he  always 
would  wear  a  flaming  red  tie.  He  saw  her  now;  he  was 
holding  his  head  high,  but  the  cigar  shifted  suddenly  to  the 
other  corner  of  his  mouth  and  back,  a  little  trick  of  his 
when  he  was  surprised  or  nervous. 

They  spoke.  He  fell  into  step  with  her.  The  talk  came 
a  little  hard.  She  could  fairly  feel  his  pressing  injured 
pride.  And  she  herself  was  more  self-conscious  than  she 
would  have  thought  possible.  There  were  unexpected,  nerv- 
ous uprtishes  of  memory,  flitting  ghosts  of  memory,  things 
they  had  done  and  said.  She  decided  that  there  was  no 
good  in  beating  about  the  bush. 

"Never  was  so  rushed  in  my  life,"  she  remarked.  This 
seemed  to  cover  in  some  measure  her  avoidance  of  him. 
There  was,  as  well,  a  confessional  impulse  in  it  which  she 
brushed  over,  particularly  as  she  sensed  deepening  resent- 
ment, rising  self-pity  in  him.  Those  nervous  muscles  about 
his  mouth  were  shifting  the  cigar  back  and  forth,  back  and 
forth.  Then  he  removed  it  and  pressed  his  upper  lip  up 
almost  against  his  flat  nose. 

"Just  met  Oswald  Qualters.  Funny  thing!  He  asked 
me  if  I  knew  Hugh  Stafford's  real  name." 


204  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"Well,  you  do,"  said  Timothy ;  he  nearly  muttered  it.  And 
added,  under  his  breath,  "So  do  1 1" 

"They're  after  him,  trying  to  figure  him  out.  I  told  him  I 
didn't  know  anything  about  him." 

"Naturally."    There  was  biting  sarcasm  in  this. 

"Yes,  naturally.    It's  the  only  decent  attitude  to  take." 

"Decent !" 

"Don't  be  ugly,  Abel !" 

"Why  are  you  telling  this  to  me?" 

"Because  you  know,  too." 

"And  you  want  me  to  help  keep  him  covered." 

"Yes.    I  should  expect  it  of  you." 

"In  God's  name,  why!" 

"Don't  be  tragic,  Abel !" 

"But  you  ask  me — me!    After  all  that's — " 

"All  nonsense,  Abel.    I'm  not  seeing  him." 

"But  good—" 

"Please  don't  work  yourself  up.  I  tell  you  there's  nothing 
between  him  and  me." 

Timothy  snorted ;  replaced  his  cigar ;  chewed  it  savagely. 

"There  isn't!" 

"Whose  fault  is  it  then?" 

"That  is  simply  an  insult,  Abel." 

"Insult?  But — but — good  God,  you  had  him  living  at 
your  place,  didn't  you?" 

"He  was  ill.  When  he  got  well  he  went  away.  I  haven't 
seen  him  since.  It  isn't  likely  that  I  shall  see  anything  of 
him.  But  he's  a  nice  fellow,  and  he's  terribly  up  again-t  it. 
I  don't  see  why  we  should  let  a  man  like  Quakers  into  his 
secret — as  long  as  he  feels  it  is  his  secret.  Why,  he  doesn't 
even  suspect  I  know." 

"Oh,  he  doesn't!" 

"No,  Abel,  he  doesn't !  I've  got  to  run  over  home  now. 
All  I'm  asking  of  you  is  to  keep  quiet  about  it.  Or  suggest- 
ing it,  rather.  Just  not  to  give  him  away  when  it's  nothing 
to  you." 

Her  voice  was  quiet  enough,  but  she  had  put  it  a  little  too 
strongly.  And  his  ill-suppressed  emotions  were  rising,  lie 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  205 

said,  "What  you  hurrying  home  for,  I'd  like  to  know?" 
Then,  a  slight  whine  in  his  voice,  he  went  on  with,  "I  sup- 
pose you  haven't  gdt  anybody  over  there,  eh!"  At  which 
she  stopped  short  and  stared  at  him  in  hard  still  anger. 

He  had  lost  himself  now.  He  couldn't  speak  pleasantly 
to  her,  and  couldn't  leave  her.  He  pleaded  with  her  and 
roughly  abused  her  in  a  breath ;  followed  her  clear  to  her 
apartment  building,  kept  her  talking  in  the  hall,  went  up  the 
stairs  clinging  to  her  elbow,  kept  her  standing  at  her  door 
until,  in  angry  despair,  white  about  the  mouth,  evading  his 
burning  eyes,  she  let  herself  in. 

He  pressed  in  after  her ;  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

She  said,  coldly,  "The  door's  open,  Abel." 

He  kicked  it  shut ;  caught  her  again.  She  stood,  unresist- 
ing, unresponsive,  like  a  woman  of  ice,  even  when  he  kissed 
her. 

"You've  turned  against  me!"  he  cried. 

"No,  I  haven't  turned  against  you,  Abel." 

"But  you  want  me  to  go  1" 

"Yes,  I  want  you  to  go." 

Her  eyes  took  him  in  as  he  stood  before  her — a  fat  man 
in  helpless  torture.  She  studied  again  the  wrinkled,  spotted 
coat ;  looked  impersonally  at  the  flushed  working  face,  now 
hopelessly  out  of  control.  She  felt  only  a  cold  relief  when 
he  rushed,  muttering,  away.  She  quietly  closed  the  door 
after  him,  feeling  that  she  had  made  rather  a  mess  of  it. 
Her  mistake  lay,  of  course,  in  speaking  on  a  snap  judgment. 
Still,  it  had  seemed  the  thing  to  do.  With  so  shrewd  a  man 
as  Oswald  Quakers  probing  into  Henry's  case,  there  wasn't 
much  time  to  lose.  She  knew  that  every  apparently  light 
remark  of  that  man  meant  something.  He  worked  that 
way.  He  wanted  to  know.  He  would  ask  others.  And  the 
News  office  was  the  place  to  ask.  Abel,  now,  traveling  con- 
stantly up  and  down  the  street,  mixing  with  lawyers  and 
bankers  and  business  men.  .  .  .  She  gave  a  shrug  and 
dismissed  the  matter. 

A  moving  picture  of  Abel  Timothy  during  the  quarter- 
hour  or  so  that  followed  his  headlong  exit  from  Margie's 


206  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

apartment  would  be  interesting  if  not  altogether  pleasing. 
He  rushed  about  back  streets  so  rapidiy  that  his  face  shone 
with  sweat  and  his  collar  wilted  around  his  neck.  He  was 
torn  between  desire,  rage  and  self-reproach.  The  rage  pre-< 
dominated. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR 
Of  Publicity,  Liquor  and  Free  Will 

Hittie!"  thought  Miss  Daw.     "He  knows 
too!" 

She  went  back  to  the  office,  pausing  only  for  a  cup  of 
coffee  in  a  lunch  room.  As  she  passed  a  corner  drug  store, 
within  which  was  an  inconspicuous  telephone  booth  that  she 
had  before  now  found  useful,  she  considered  calling  Henry. 
Not  at  the  Cantey  house ;  it  had  been  a  bit  awkward,  yester- 
day, finding  Miss  Cantey  herself  on  the  line;  by  this  time 
he  would  doubtless  be  back  at  his  room.  She  was  thinking 
of  reassuring  him,  and  perhaps  as  well  of  taking  credit  for 
the  effort  she  was  expending  in  his  behalf.  But  she  thought 
better  of  this,  and  hurried  to  the  News  building  and  went 
clear  to  the  roof. 

Mr.  Hitt  was  sitting  in  the  first  alcove  of  his  "morgue." 
She  could  see  his  bald  head,  bent  over  the  "Can-Cam" 
drawer  and  the  shine  on  the  gold  rims  of  his  spectacles. 

She  paused  behind  him  to  light  a  cigarette;  then  sat  on 
his  desk  and  swung  her  little  feet. 

"Working  hard,  Hittie  ?"  she  queried,  through  the  smoke. 

He  smiled,  and  held  up  a  folder  that  was  packed  with 
clippings  and  typewritten  matter. 

"This,"  he  said. 

"What's  this?" 

"The  Calvery  story.    Haven't  you  heard?" 

"No.    I  came  straight  up  here." 

"Madame  Watt  died  this  afternoon.  Alone,  in  her  castle. 
The  servants  had  all  left.  Left  everything  to  her  son-in- 
law.  They're  looking  for  him  now,  all  the  way  to  Alaska." 

"He'll  be  rich,  then?" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

Margie  smoked  thoughtfully.     Then  remarked,  offhand: 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?" 

207 


208  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"Do  about  it  ?" 

She  nodded.    "Going  to  give  him  away?" 

Mr.  Hitt  settled  back  in  his  chair. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "Been  considering  it.  I'll  con- 
fess I  have  had — I  seem  to  have  now — a  good  deal  of  feel- 
ing for  the  boy.  And  he's  chosen  this  other  name." 

"And  he  was  one  of  us  here,  if  only  for  a  few  days,"  said 
she,  easily. 

"I  know.  But  would  it  make  a  particle  of  difference? 
They'll  find  him  out  before  morning." 

"They  may  not.  You  and  I  are  the  only  ones  to  tell.  And 
we're  not  supposed  to  know  it." 

"But  we're  going  to  run  his  picture  to-morrow.  There's 
an  order  for  it  there.  I  think  you're  sitting  on  it.  Every 
paper  in  the  country  will  run  it." 

Margie  continued  to  smoke  and  think. 

"I  feel  a  little  as  you  do,  Hittie,"  she  remarked.  "I'd  like 
to  be  easy  on  him.  Though  goodness  knows  he's  nothing 
to  me.  ...  I  was  thinking.  You  remember  that  circu- 
lation stunt  they  tried  here  year  before  last — printed  a  man's 
picture  every  day,  with  and  without  a  hat,  full  face  and 
profile,  told  what  part  of  the  city  he'd  be  wandering  around 
that  day,  and  offered  a  hundred  dollars  to  any  one  that  rec- 
ognized him?  And  in  eight  days  nobody  got  the  hundred. 
This'll  be  an  old  cut,  of  course.  No,  I'm  not  at  all  sure 
they'd  find  him  out." 

"True,"  mused  Mr.  Hitt.  "There's  a  good  deal  in  that. 
And  the  poor  devil's  had  publicity  enough  in  his  life  without 
dragging  him  through  this  hell  again." 

"Oh,  he'll  have  to  take  a  lot  anyway,"  said  she.  "But  if 
he  can  slip  by,  around  here,  under  the  name  of  Stafford,  it 
would  be  a  little  more  bearable,  I  should  think.  For  that 
matter,  even  if  it  came  out  later,  it  wouldn't  hit  him  as  it 
would  right  now,  when  the  whole  story's  being  played. 
No,  I'm  willing  to  keep  still  if  you  are." 

"All  right,"  Mr.  Hitt  agreed.  "And  now,  my  dear,  if 
you'll  let  me  have  my  desk — they're  in  a  hurry  for  this 
stuff." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  209 

"Did  the  new  man  send  up?" 

The  "new  man"  was  the  managing  editor  who  had  suc- 
ceeded Winterbeck.  He  was  a  burly,  close-mouthed  young 
man  from  New  York,  with  driving  ways,  and  a  brisk,  even 
aggressive  superiority  to  middle-western  manners. 

"Yes.  And  he'll  be  sending  again  if  I  don't  rush  it  down." 
Mr.  Hitt  sighed,  and  the  patient  lines  about  his  mouth  set- 
tled more  deeply.  "Things  are  different." 

"Oh,  yes,  they're  different."  Margie  jumped  down,  and 
flicked  the  ashes  from  her  skirt.  "Frank  was  snappy,  but 
thank  Heaven  he  wasn't  this  efficiency  thing.  We'll  be 
punching  a  clock  soon." 

Mr.  Hitt  smiled  faintly,  then  plunged  at  the  mass  of  pa- 
pers before  him. 

During  this  hour,  from  six  to  seven  of  a  pleasant  sum- 
mer evening,  a  task  more  or  less  similar  to  that  now  being 
performed  by  Mr.  Hitt  was  being  got  through  in  every  con- 
siderable newspaper  office  in  America.  The  Watt  story  had 
"broken"  again.  News  came  in  the  form  of  an  Associated 
Press  despatch.  This  in  itself,  despite  its  dignified,  even  bald 
condensation,  was  a  striking  account  of  the  last  hours  of  the 
most  sensationally  picturesque  woman  in  North  America. 
Her  extraordinary  castle  was  described,  with  the  refugee 
rabble  that  had  melted  away  during  the  last  few  weeks, 
when  she  was  too  ill  to  care  for  them.  The  bizarre  story 
of  her  earlier  life  was  retold,  as  was  the  dramatic  killing  of 
Senator  Watt  and,  in  detail,  the  most  notorious  of  all  trials 
in  recent  American  history.  The  pathetic  death  of  Cicely 
figured,  of  course,  with  Henry's  defiance  of  the  court  and 
his  subsequent  imprisonment.  Toward  the  latter  part  of 
the  despatch,  the  emphasis  shifted  from  madame  and  the 
senator  and  Cicely  to  Henry  himself,  as  the  only  one  of  that 
strangely  assorted  quartet  now  left  on  earth.  Much  was 
made  of  his  sudden  world-wide  fame,  followed  so  swiftly 
by  the  shock  of  his  imprisonment,  and,  some  time  after  that, 
his  disappearance  from  civilized  life.  He  had  been  reported 
from  Alaska,  as  from  China,  parts  of  Europe,  Morocco,  and 
obscure  villages  in  the  United  States.  His  publishers,  in 


210  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

New  York,  denied  the  slightest  knowledge  of  his  present 
whereabouts,  beyond  the  bare  announcement  that  they  had 
received  no  definite  word  of  his  death.  The  attorney  for 
the  Watt  estate,  one  H.  C.  Parker,  of  Chicago,  had  "nothing 
to  say"  to  the  reporters.  This  touch  of  present  mystery 
gave  an  added  journalistic  value  to  the  announcement  that 
Calverly  was  madame's  sole  heir.  The  estate,  even  after 
the  strain  of  the  trial  and  madame's  extravagance  since, 
was  estimated  as  having  a  value  of  between  one  and  two  mil- 
lion dollars.  There  were  many  valuable  securities,  real  prop- 
erty in  Sunbury,  Illinois,  and  New  York,  besides  the  castle 
by  the  lake  and  at  least  two  large  properties  in  France  which 
had  belonged  to  her  first  husband,  the  Comte  de  la  Plaine. 
His  other  properties  she  sold  at  the  time  of  her  return  to 
America. 

It  was  about  this  literary  skeleton  that  all  but  a  few  of  the 
principal  newspapers  of  the  country  at  once  proceeded  to 
build  out  the  flesh  and  blood  and  clothing  of  "personal  inter- 
est." Flashily  clever  reporters  were  set  at  work  elaborating 
the  narrative.  "Sob"  writers  dwelt  feverishly  on  the  fate  of 
Cicely  Calverly,  or  on  madame's  madness  as  an  inevitable 
judgment  on  her  for  the  evil  nature  of  her  early  life.  Popu- 
lar ministers  were  interviewed  regarding  her  pathetic  strug- 
gles to  convert  a  bad  name  into  a  good  one  by  the  lavish  use 
of  the  wealth  she  had  acquired.  Some  even  pointed  out  that 
the  wrecking  of  the  brilliant  young  Henry  Calverly's  career 
had  come  about  through  his  own  lawlessness.  Indeed,  de- 
spite the  clarity  of  the  Associated  Press  despatch  on  this 
point,  it  became  evident  that  the  reasons  underlying  Henry's 
defiance  of  the  court,  his  instinctive,  even  primitive  at- 
tempt to  save  the  life  of  his  young  wife,  had  evaporated  in 
the  minds  of  most  of  these  newspaper  people.  Apparently 
their  opinions  were  made  out  of  the  ail-but  universal  Amer- 
ican interest  in  what  have  been  called  "results."  Calverly 
had  certainly  been  sentenced  and  imprisoned.  There  had 
been  no  appeal.  For  a  few  months  he  had  been  one  of  the 
really  famous  men  of  the  world ;  after  that,  an  outcast.  He 
had  written  no  more  "Satraps."  He  was  even  referred  to, 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  211 

here  and  there,  as  a  "convict."  The  judge  who  sentenced 
him  was  sitting,  still,  in  the  same  court  in  Chicago,  a  widely 
known  and  respected  jurist.  There  seemed  to  be  no  reason 
for  believing  that  Calverly  had  been  right.  Certainly  there 
was  no  commonly  understood  reason  for  believing  Judge 
Wattemy  wrong. 

So  the  thing  was  happening  that  for  years  now  had  hung 
over  Henry  Calverly  like  a  continuous  nightmare.  The 
Watt-Calverly  case  had  been  reopened.  The  enormous,  ter- 
ribly casual  force  that  is  called,  loosely,  "publicity,"  was  to 
strike  him  again.  More  than  ever  before  was  it  to  set  him  in 
the  wrong  before  the  vast,  impersonal,  sensation  loving  pub- 
lic. More  than  ever  before  was  it  to  be  true  that  no  right 
action  on  his  part,  no  mere  decent  effort  could  affect  his 
reputation.  That  was,  as  it  had  been  from  the  day  "The 
Caliph  of  Simpson  Street" — the  first  of  the  "Satraps"  stories 
— appeared  in  Galbraith's  Magazine,  nearly  five  years  back, 
hopelessly  out  of  his  own  control.  And  now  there  was  the 
false  name  to  be  added  to  the  count  against  him.  That 
would  be  accepted  by  the  man  in  the  street  everywhere,  as 
an  evidence  of  guilt,  or  at  least  of  weakness.  For  the  al- 
most racial  doctrine  of  Free  Will  works  out  curiously  and 
often  cruelly  in  the  personal  judgments  of  the  Anglo-Saxon. 
It  is  deeply  reflected  in  the  Common  Law.  It  dominates, 
of  course,  in  religious  thought.  It  refracts  through  all  busi- 
ness life.  Everywhere  it  has  been  our  habit  to  assume  that 
the  individual  is  responsible  for  his  own  acts,  that  he  is  to 
be  personally  credited  with  his  financial  and  moral  success, 
personally  debited  with  his  failure.  Until  very  lately,  the 
really  determining  accidents  of  birth  and  breeding,  environ- 
mental influences  and  quite  irresistible  social  pressures  have 
played  little  or  no  part  in  our  judgments  of  men — and 
women.  We  have  run  an  individualistic  race.  We  have 
held  the  individual  responsible  for  the  result.  And  we  have 
crudely  let  it  go  at  that.  To  admit  that  there  are  life  cur- 
rents in  which  no  strong  swimmer  could  fail  to  reach  a  shin- 
ing goal  would  be  to  undermine  our  heroes ;  and  we  have 
clung  to  our  heroes.  To  admit  that  other  currents  exist 


212  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

which  no  swimmer  can  breast,  would  be  to  undermine  our 
philosophy,  our  law,  our  very  religion;  and  we  have  clung 
to  these.  .  .  .  Henry  Calverly,  for  better  or  worse,  was 
back  on  page  one. 

It  couldn't  have  been  later  than  half  past  six  or  a  quarter 
to  sev^n  when  Abel  Timothy,  flabbily  black  of  countenance, 
walking  heavily  and  slow,  returning  to  the  News  building 
to  take  up  the  night  grind,  met  a  reporter  named  Ruggles, 
who  was  rushing  around  to  a  certain  old  alley  tavern  for  a 
drink.  Timothy  gladly  joined  him. 

To  Timothy's  casual,  "What's  on?"  Ruggles  replied: 

"Got  to  pitch  in  on  this  dam'  Watt  row.  Writing  a 
'Margie  Daw'  story." 

"Why  ?    Can't  she  do  her  own  ?" 

"Doesn't  seem  able  to  do  this.  I  believe  Archie's  using 
her  at  the  theater  to-night.  Anyhow  she's  begged  off.  So 
I'm  sobbing." 

"What's  the  Watt  row?" 

"Oh,  that  old  countess.  Murdered  Senator  Watt.  Left 
her  money  to  Henry  Calverly — a  wad  of  it — and  they  can't 
find  him." 

Timothy  left  Ruggles  at  the  curb.  The  liquor  glowed 
warmly  within  him.  He  stood  there,  watching  the  early 
evening  crowd  flow  by,  wishing  Margie  would  happen  along. 
He  had  thought  of  a  thing  or  two  to  say  to  her.  She  was 
taking  shape  in  his  temporarily  disordered  mind  as  a  deceit- 
ful and  ungrateful  woman. 

Another  thought  was  creeping  in.  He  moved  along  the 
street  now.  His  glance  was  furtive.  His  color  was  rising 
a  little.  He  paused  before  the  News  building;  started  up 
the  alley  that  led  to  the  "annex,"  stopped,  came  back  to  the 
street,  moved  along  a  little  way  and  stood  staring  in  at  the 
drug-store  window.  Finally,  with  a  quick  glance  about,  he 
pulled  down  his  coat,  adjusted  his  red  tie,  straightened  his 
hat,  and  started  for  Oswald  Quakers'  home,  in  the  older 
aristocratic  section,  almost  down-town,  just  before  you 
reached  the  Hill. 

Quakers,  who  had  no  illusions  as  to  the  stuff  of  which 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  213 

great  reputations  are  made,  and  made  it  a  point  to  be  agree- 
able to  newspaper  people,  had  just  sat  down  to  dinner  with 
his  family,  but  came  in  at  once  to  see  his  unexpected  caller. 

Timothy,  uneasy,  somewhat  wandering  in  speech,  told 
his  story. 

"You  don't  say!"  said  Quakers.  "So  Stafford  is  Cal- 
verly.  A  jailbird,  eh!  Well,  my  friends  will  be  interested 
to  learn  that!  You  say  it's  coming  out  in  to-morrow's 
paper?" 

"No — no,  I  don't  think  it  is,  as  it  stands  now.'* 

"But  why  not?" 

"Well,  you  see  he  worked  with  us  for  a  little  while. 
There's  only  one  or  two  of  us  that  know  who  he  is,  and  we'd 
hardly  give  him  away.  But  if  the  other  papers  heard  of  it 
they'd  camp  right  on  his  trail.  He  couldn't  dodge  'em.  Then 
it  would  come  to  us  through  the  City  Press,  and  we'd  have  to 
run  it,  too.  Our  managing  editor  wouldn't  care  a  damn,  any- 
way. He  didn't  know  Stafford.  And  he'd  run  anything. 
He's  from  New  York.  .  .  .  You  understand,  I  don't 
care  to  appear  in  this  in  any  way.  And  I'd  rather  you 
wouldn't  take  it  up  with  the  News.  Not  direct.  Just  let  it 
come  around  through  the  City  Press." 

He  left  an  impression  of  a  fat  man  acting  under  great 
emotional  pressure.  Personal  feeling,  of  course.  Curious! 
.  .  .  Before  returning  to  the  dining-room  Qualters  called 
up  Harvey  O'Rell  and  instructed  him  to  send  at  once  for 
reporters  from  the  Herald,  Press,  and  Globe  and  set  them 
on  Mr.  Stafford-Calverly.  O'Rell  thought  the  best  way 
would  be  to  have  one  of  the  police  officials  let  it  out  to  the 
newspaper  bureau  at  headquarters.  They  left  it  that  way. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE 
In  Which  a  Dream  Ends;  As  Dreams  Do 

THE  excitement  of  the  past  few  days  had  told  heavily 
on  Miriam.     Her  temperature  rose  during  the  night. 
Doctor  Martin  was  in  before  breakfast,  and  instructed  Miss 
Russell  to  keep  her  abed. 

Calverly,  when  he  shut  himself  in  the  study,  found  the 
narrow  door  open  and  the  wheel-chair  empty  by  the  window. 
But  Miss  Russell  brought  him  a  note.  Miriam  had  insisted 
on  writing  it. 

"Please  answer  this  right  away!"  she  wrote.  "I've  had 
an  awful  night.  I  want  to  know  that  you're  there,  working. 
It  wasn't  a  dream,  was  it !" 

To  which  he  replied : 

"It  wasn't  a  dream,  dear.  Though  the  night  hasn't  been 
simple  for  me  either.  Are  we  right  ?  Do  you  dare  believe 
we're  right  ?  I  bring  you  so  much  less  than  nothing — noth- 
ing but  love.  I  think  of  you,  surrounded  by  all  these  old 
influences.  The  moment  they  hear  of  our  engagement  they 
will  make  it  terribly  hard  for  you.  All  our  plans,  our  hopes, 
our  faith,  must  run  counter  to  the  whole  world — the  world 
in  which  those  people  live.  I  can  see  those  three  men  now. 
Your  father  was  right,  in  this  as  in  everything.  They'll 
fight  so.  And  to-day  I  can  see  that  all  the  trouble  ahead  of 
us  is  to  bear  on  you.  You've  suffered  so  much !  Is  it  right 
for  me  to  make  it  still  harder  for  you.  Can  you  endure  it, 
brave  girl?  You  must  search  your  heart.  If  you  can  give 
me  up,  you  must  do  it.  I  think  I  could  bear  it.  I'm  used 
to  disappointment." 

She  answered  this  with : 

214 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  215 

"You  dear  silly  boy!  I  shan't  give  you  up.  You're  all 
my  world.  I  could  never  make  this  fight  without  you.  To- 
gether we'll  defy  them  all.  And  oh,  it  will  be  living!  I've 
been  dead  so  long.  And  don't  forget  that  you've  suffered, 
too.  In  a  queer  way  that's  the  joy  of  it.  We're  beginning 
together." 

Along  toward  twelve-thirty,  when  Miss  Russell  started 
down-stairs  for  Miss  Cantey's  luncheon,  she  found  him  wait- 
ing near  the  study  door,  hat  in  one  hand,  a  note  in  the  other. 
He  was  pale,  and  a  bit  disheveled  ;  he  must  have  been  sitting 
there  running  his  fingers  through  his  hair  without  knowing. 
He  looked  tired  about  the  eyes,  a  little  strained.  She  thought 
him  rather  jumpy. 

Part  of  this  note  read: 

"There  is  one  serious  thing,  dear.  I've  got  to  think  it 
out.  It's  hard  to  think  of  anything  but  what  happened  last 
evening.  But  it's  plain  to  me  now  that  I  made  an  awful 
blunder  when  I  took  this  other  name.  At  the  time  it  seemed 
reasonable.  They  had  hounded  me  so — wouldn't  let  me 
alone.  I  had  lost  everything.  I  didn't  want  fo  disturb 
any  one — just  to  be  left  alone  to  work  my  life  out  some- 
how. But  it's  getting  clearer  now  that  I  was  wrong.  If 
I  could  only  get  it  really  clear !  But  my  whole  being  is  filled 
with  radiant  thoughts  of  you.  I'm  half  mad — with  love. 
And  it  won't  do  to  be  mad." 

After  luncheon  he  found  her  reply  under  a  paper-weight 
on  the  desk. 

"It's  serious,  in  a  way,"  she  said.  "But  after  all,  it's  only 
a  part  of  the  fight  we  have  to  make.  It's  not  as  if  you  had 
done  something  to  disgrace  your  name.  Don't  forget,  dear 
boy,  that  you're  famous.  And  you're  not  the  first  famous 
man  that  has  chosen  to  go  about  unknown.  No,  I  don't 
believe  it  is  so  serious.  You're  making  too  much  of  it. 
,  s  ,  The  serious  problem  is  me!  I'm  so  disgustingly 


216  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

weak.  I've  got  to  get  well.  I've  got  to  learn/to  stand  this 
glorious  excitement  better.  And  1  will,  boy  K  I  will !  And 
you'll  help  me.  You  made  me  walk,  now  you'll  make  me 
strong,  a  lit  partner." 

1  He  was  in  such  a  daze  that  the  force  of  this  revelation 
didn't  begin  to  touch  his  conscious  mind  until  he  was 
walking  over  to  the  boarding-house,  toward  six  o'clock.  For 
the  present,  life  was  running  too  fast  for  him.  He  couldn't 
keep  up  with  it.  He  felt  himself  dragged  along. 

And  then  the  thrill  of  this  absurd  correspondence  was  ris- 
ing, in  them  both.  He  couldn't  work.  During  the  after- 
noon something  of  the  glow  they  had  experienced  the  night 
before  came  again  to  them.  The  little  notes  grew  tender, 
became  love  letters.  By  mid-afternoon  they  were  writing 
feverishly.  Hardly  a  quarter-hour  passed  without  the  solid 
tread  of  Miss  Russell  sounding  in  the  hall.  The  two  of 
them  simply  forgot  her,  except  to  use  her.  She  hadn't  had 
a  moment  off  in  the  twenty-four  hours.  She  felt,  conscien- 
tiously enough,  that  Miss  Cantey  must  somehow  be  quieted 
or  she  wouldn't  answer  for  the  consequences.  Things  were 
getting  altogether  out  of  hand,  running  away. 

It  was  nearly  dinner-time  before  she  managed  to  slip  out 
and  run  over  to  Mrs.  Appleby's.  He  was  gone.  Miss  Can- 
tey was  resting,  after  a  fashion.  Miss  Russell  was  wholly 
out  of  sympathy  with  her.  She  regarded  this  love-affair  as 
she  would  have  regarded  an  out-and-out  mental  disorder. 
Though  when  the  doctor  privately  asked  her  what  on  earth 
was  going  on  to  upset  Miss  Cantey's  nerves  like  this,  she 
managed  an  evasion.  The  person  to  know  first  of  the  acute 
personal  problem  was  Miss  Cantey's  own  sister,  not  Doctor 
Martin. 

So  she  broke  the  news  to  Esther,  talking  quietly  but  with 
an  undertone  of  excitement — all  of  it,  the  amazing  confes- 
sion of  an  engagement  to  marry,  the  resulting  over-excite- 
ment and  exhaustion,  the  love  idyl  that  had  taken  the  form 
of  incessant  note-writing,  the  doctor's  shrewd  question  ; 
added  her  own  earnest  conclusion  that  something  should  be 


. 
THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  217 

done  at  once.  She  believed  Doctor  Martin  would  jump  at 
the  suggestion  of  a  change,  a  long  journey,  perhaps,  any- 
way complete  change  of  scene.  She  had  worked  up  this 
idea  during  the  day,  and  had  mentally  tried  out  various  ways 
of  putting  it,  rehearsing  even  the  phrases  that  she  felt  might 
most  quickly  catch  Mrs.  Appleby's  attention.  She  used  what 
she  felt  to  be  the  most  effective  of  these  phrases  now. 

"That's  a  good  idea,"  said  Esther,  eyes  snapping  with 
temper  but  voice  dignified,  almost  calm.  The  little  matter 
of  the  ten  dollars  came  to  mind.  She  had  never  bribed  be- 
fore, and  found  the  notion  a  bit  disconcerting  that  this  young 
woman  had  become  virtually  her  property  in  return  for  so 
small  a  sum.  She  was  not  practised  in  handling  this  sort  of 
property.  Dignity  was  her  only  recourse.  She  was  glad 
when  Miss  Russell  left. 

And  she  knew  she  must  think  hard.  The  situation  had 
gone  beyond  snap  judgments  or  heedless  action.  What 
was  to  be  done  must  be  done  sharply,  surely,  to  a  purpose. 
One  thing,  Miriam  must  not  be  allowed  to  see  this  man 
again.  He  would  be  coming  around  in  the  morning,  and 
must  be  forestalled. 

Will,  when  she  laid  the  matter  rather  heatedly  before  him, 
at  the  dinner  table,  complicated  her  mental  processes  by 
remarking: 

"To-morrow?  My  dear  girl,  if  he's  as  completely  daffy 
over  her  as  the  nurse's  story  makes  out  he  won't  sit  around 
until  to-morrow.  He'll  be  calling  this  evening.  I  should 
say,  she  can  look  for  him  about  twenty  minutes  to  eight." 

Esther  laid  down  her  knife  and  fork.  A  pucker  appeared 
between  her  pretty  eyebrows. 

"Will,"  she  said,  "we  must  go  straight  over  there." 

"The  thing  has  awkward  aspects.  It's  her  own  house. 
After  all—" 

"Do  you  really  expect  me  to  sit  here  and  listen  to  that 
kind  of  talk?" 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  feel  about  this  much  as  you  do — just 
as  you  do,  in  fact — but  in  all  difficult  business  transactions 
we  men  find  it  a  good  thing  to—" 


218  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"Will,  that  girl's  my  own  sister,  my  younger  sister.  It's 
high  time  we  stopped  feeling  delicate  about  the  property. 
There's  such  a  thing  as  human  responsibility.  There's  such 
a  thing  as  duty.  You'll  admit  that  ?" 

"Of  course,  dearest,  but — " 

"My  own  little  sister  has  fallen  into  the  hands  of  a  de- 
signing adventurer.  It  isn't  the  property.  It's  so  much 
more  than  that  that  I  don't  see  how  you  can  hesitate  one 
minute.  It's  that  girl's  life  and  it's  father's  name." 

Mr.  Amme  called  up  then.  \Yill  went  to  the  phone.  He 
returned  with  a  genuinely  distressed  countenance. 

"Dearest,"  he  said,  "I'll  never  again  distrust  a  woman's 
intuition.  They've  run  this  fellow  down.  He's  Henry 
Calverly." 

"Henry—?" 

''The  writer.    A  notorious  chap." 

"Henry  Calverly!    Wait!    I  remember — " 

"Oh,  the  Watt  trial.    All  that  mess." 

"He— wasn't  he—" 

"He's  the  fellow.  Went  to  prison.  And  afterward  dis- 
appeared off  the  face  of  the  earth." 

"A  widower,  too,  isn't  he?" 

"A  widower  and  a  jailbird  and  God  knows  what  else!" 

"We  must  go  now,  Will.  This  thing  must  be  stopped  to- 
night." 

"Just  how,  sweet  ?" 

"I'll  take  care  of  Miriam.  My  duty  is  clear.  I'll  have  to 
drop  everything,  of  course.  But  a  time  like  this  who 
wouldn't  sacrifice  themselves !" 

"You're  thinking  of  taking  her  off?'' 

"Somewhere,  yes.  I  was  just  thinking  of  Bermuda. 
But—" 

"California  might  be  easier  to  manage.  Amme  could  run 
vour  father's  car  out.  You're  not  a  good  sailor,  you  know, 
dear." 

"You  can  call  Mr.  Amme  up  from  her  house,  Will.  We'll 
go  now." 

So  they  set  out. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  219 

"I  suppose  it's  only  fair  that  Miriam  should  stand  the 
expense,  seeing  it's  —  " 

"Well,  I  should  rather  think  so!  It's  her  fault.  We're 
acting  in  her  interest.  And  as  you'll  have  to  come  —  " 

"Me?" 

"Of  course,  Will  !  Don't  be  stupid  !  You'll  have  to  see 
us  settled  comfortably  somewhere,  won't  you?" 


"It's  no  time  for  indecision.  You  must  call  up  Mrs. 
Harper,  too,  and  have  her  come  in  to-night  to  pack.  Miss 
Russell  and  Mrs.  Bentley  can  help,  too.  You'll  find  Mrs. 
Harper  under  Wilson  and  Harper  in  the  telephone  book. 
If  you  can't  reach  her  call  up  Genevieve  Grant  on  Harrison 
Avenue.  She  does  hair  dressing,  but  she's  an  experienced 
packer,  too.  You  must  call  up  Mr.  Listerly,  too.  He's 
responsible  for  this." 

Esther  walked  in  on  her  sister,  all  calm,  high  decision. 
Miss  Russell,  furtively  discreet,  seeing,  hearing  nothing, 
moved  about  the  room  and  in  and  out.  On  the  way  over 
Esther  had  waylaid  Doctor  Martin.  That  somewhat  routine 
person  welcomed  her  decision. 

"You're  a  sick  girl,  Miriam,"  said  Esther,  soothingly,  at 
the  bedside.  "I'm  going  to  take  care  of  you  for  a  while." 

"I  get  all  the  care  I  need,  Esther."  She  was  flushed, 
utterly  exhausted,  blue  eyes  wide  open. 

"Doctor  Martin  has  sent  some  medicine." 

"I  don't  want  it." 

"He  says  you  simply  must  sleep.  You're  wearing  your- 
self out." 

"Oh,  Esther,  please  leave  me  alone.  I  can't  talk  now.  But 
I  don't  want  to  sleep." 

"The  time  has  come,  child,  when  we  can't  stop  to  consult 
your  wishes.  I  tell  you  we're  going  to  take  care  of  you." 

"I  won't  take  veronal.    I'm  through  with  all  that." 

"This  is  something  else.    He  sent  it  over  by  me." 

"Miss  Russell,  is  this  true?" 

"Miriam,  how  can  you  —  "  Esther's  voice  trailed  off.  She 
recalled  that  you  humored  invalids. 


220  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"Doctor  Martin  telephoned,  Miss  Cantey,"  said  the  nurse 
very  quietly.  "He  instructed  me  to  give  you  the  medicine 
Mrs.  Appleby  would  bring." 

Miriam  glanced  nervously  from  one  to  the  other.  What 
did  they  know?  Why  were  they  surrounding  her  like  this? 
She  tried  to  rally  the  strength  she  had  felt  in  the  afternoon. 
His  notes  were  under  her  pillow.  She  felt  now  as  she  had 
never  felt  before  the  disheartening  effect  of  sheer  physical 
weakness  on  the  will.  She  wanted  to  tell  the  truth,  but  hesi- 
tated. Esther,  sitting  calmly,  positively  there,  subtly,  surely 
held  the  advantage.  Now  that  the  exaltation  of  the  day 
had  passed,  one  puzzling  thought  was  undermining  her  se- 
cret happiness — her  mental  efforts  to  argue  it  down  were 
unsuccessful — the  curious  problem  of  the  false  name.  It 
felt  more  serious  now.  It  wasn't  serious,  of  course.  But 
she  must  know  all  about  it,  in  order  not  to  be  made  ridicu- 
lous in  an  argument.  For  she  knew,  of  old,  that  Esther 
would  argue,  would  fall  back  on  her  prerogative  as  the  elder 
sister.  .  .  .  Her  head  burned.  Her  mouth  was  dry. 
She  asked  for  water,  and  moistened  it.  Miss  Russell  made 
her  use  a  glass  tube.  She  resented  it.  ...  Perhaps  he 
would  come  back  this  evening.  He  had  come  last  evening. 
She  would  make  them  bring  him  in.  He  would  face  them 
all.  The  divine  fire  that  had  been  in  Henry  Calverly,  that 
had  crept  wonderfully  into  the  last  few  of  these  little  notes 
of  his,  would  be  too  much  for  them.  .  .  .  During  the 
day  she  had  glowed  with  the  thought  of  mothering  him. 
Now,  in  every  conscious  thought,  she  was  leaning  on  what 
she  could  remember  of  his  young  strength.  The  finest  qual- 
ity in  him  was  his  utter,  naive  honesty.  She  became  con- 
fused, however,  trying  to  think  out  the  problem  of  bringing 
such  a  literal  mind  as  Esther's  to  the  point  of  reconciling 
naive  honesty  with  an  alias.  Some  imp  of  the  fancy 
popped  that  ugly  word  in  among  her  thoughts.  She  tried 
to  forget  it.  That  was  why  he  had  changed  his  name,  of 
course ;  because  he  was  naive.  He  was  a  babe  in  the  woods 
of  the  world,  an  artist-soul.  She  dwelt  on  that  thought. 

Esther  was  speaking.    It  seemed  now  that  she  had  been 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  221 

speaking  for  some  time.  About  a  journey.  California  was 
mentioned — sunshine,  rest  and  something  about  a  gradual 
building  up. 

"I'm  not  going  away,"  her  own  voice  said. 

"Now  dearie,  you  just  lie  quietly  and  leave  it  all  to  us. 
We're  doing  everything  possible  to  make  you  comfortable. 
Mr.  Amme  is  having  father's  car  got  ready.  Will  and  I  are 
going  with  you.  And  either  Doctor  Martin,  or  his  assistant. 
And  Miss  Russell,  of  course.  Mrs.  Bentley  will  close  the 
house.  It's  all  arranged.  You're  not  to  worry  about  a 
thing." 

The  evening  and  the  night  that  followed  remained  as  lit- 
tle more  than  a  confused  memory  to  Miriam.  There  were 
clear  but  unrelated  mental  pictures  of  Esther,  irritat- 
ingly  deliberate  and  placid,  moving  about,  and  of  a  quietly 
efficient  mulatto  woman  that  they  called  "Mrs.  Harper,"  and 
of  the  white-clad  Miss  Russell,  and  of  the  gravely  dominant 
Doctor  Martin,  who  seemed  to  have  been  in  the  room  a  long 
time  without  definitely  entering  or  leaving,  and  a  rather 
apologetic  Will  Appleby  at  the  door,  whispering  and  mop- 
ping a  glistening  red  face,  and  of  Mr.  Amme  tiptoeing  in 
and  out  but  staying  mostly  in  the  hall. 

Her  skin  was  hot,  her  head  reeling.  She  couldn't  trust 
her  tongue.  In  her  own  thoughts  she  was  eagerly,  intensely, 
defending  Henry  Calverly,  though  they  did  not  speak  of 
him. 

Then,  after  a  while — it  must  have  been  late — everybody 
seemed  to  be  talking  about  him,  all  at  once.  She  couldn't 
think  how  this  began,  whether  she  herself  finally  brought  it 
all  up,  or  whether  they  had  known.  One  way  or  the  other, 
they  knew;  about  the  engagement,  the  papers,  everything. 
Their  reproaches  were  veiled,  and  were  the  harder  to  meet 
for  that.  Her  own  position  grew  unexpectedly  hard  to  de- 
fend. She  could  fall  back  only  on  her  love,  and  that  ap- 
peared to  amount  to  nothing  more  than  the  impression  he 
had  made  on  her. 

Said  Esther: 

"But  how  can  you  say  you  love  him,  when  you  don't  even 


222  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

knotv  him !  You  haven't  known  him  a  week !  A  man  with 
an  alias!'' 

"I  know  all  about  that !"  she  cried.  "He  told  me.  He 
is  Henry  Calverly." 

"Wouldn't  it  have  been  just  a  little  fairer  to  have  con- 
sulted me  before  you  gave  father's  most  intimate  secrets  to 
a  stranger?" 

This  provoked  discussion.  She  remembered  Esther  say- 
ing, "A  man's  public  life  is  one  thing,  his  private  life  an- 
other. There  are  some  things  that  can't  be  shouted  to  the 
rabble.  Surely  other  people,  nice  people,  have  to  be  con- 
sidered. And  you'd  think  the  immediate  family  had  a  few 
rights !" 

All  this  was  trying.  They  pressed  about  her.  She  couldn't 
escape.  Nowhere  was  there  sympathy.  She  was  to  all  of 
them  no  more  than  a  wilful  child.  When  she  demanded  that 
they  send  for  Henry  and  give  him,  give  them  both,  a  chance 
to  face  them  all,  they  tried  to  soothe  her.  A  sense  of  hope- 
lessness came  over  her.  She  hadn't  the  strength  to  assert 
herself.  She  had  forgotten  the  strength  of  the  family  re- 
lationship, as  of  the  group  that  had  surrounded  her  father. 
The  authority  of  her  older  sister,  so  suddenly  revived,  had 
still  a  strength  that  was  disarming.  Of  late  years,  she  had 
all  but  forgotten  it ;  Ksther  had  let  her  alone  so. 

Once  Esther  stood  over  the  bed. 

"You  are  making  it  very  hard  for  us,  Miriam,"  she  said. 
"You  have  been  a  foolish  girl.  We  are  going  to  save  you 
from  yourself,  whether  you  like  it  or  not.  We  have  no 
choice.  We  aren't  doing  this  for  ourselves.  Certainly,  I'm 
not  dropping  everything  overnight  and  leaving  for  a  long 
journey  to  indulge  myself.  You'll  never  know  what  a  sacri- 
fice I'm  making  for  you.  It  doesn't  matter,  of  course. 
.  .  .  I  want  to  ask  you  this:  You  say  this  man  told 
you  everything.  Did  he  tell  you  that  he  has  been  a  con- 
vict?" 

That  was  what  finally  broke  Miriam's  will.  She  couldn't 
answer  it.  For  that  matter,  she  hadn't  even  known  that  he 
was  a  widower.  And  they  saw  that  she  hadn't.  There  was 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  223 

no  possible  explanation  of  his  failure  to  tell  the  whole  truth. 
Esther  brought  Will  in  at  this  point,  and  called  Doctor  Mar- 
tin up-stairs,  even  dragged  in  prim  little  Mr.  Amme.  They 
all  gravely  confirmed  these  stories.  Mr.  Amme,  in  some  em- 
barrassment, explained  that  the  man  was,  in  literal  truth,  a 
nameless  and  penniless  adventurer.  He  had  been  tried  on 
the  News  as  a  common  reporter,  but  had  to  be  discharged 
almost  at  once  for  utter  lack  of  discretion. 

Miriam  felt  as  if  her  mind  were  going.  All  the  years 
of  her  life — girlhood  associations,  memories  of  her  mother, 
the  years  with  her  father,  seemed  to  rise  upon  her  and 
overwhelm  these  few  amazing  days.  She  couldn't  by  any 
mental  effort,  make  them  or  Henry  come  real  again,  even 
with  her  hand  under  the  pillow  clutching  his  notes.  Her 
heart  ached  for  him.  He  must  have  suffered  during  these 
heavily  shadowed  years  beyond  anything  in  her  own  experi- 
ence. But  he  should  have  told  her  everything.  It  was  the 
only  possible  basis.  When  Esther  asked  her  bluntly  if  she 
were  actually  willing  to  wreck  her  own  and  her  father's 
name  by  plunging  on  into  this  ill-considered,  almost  uncon- 
sidered  love-affair,  just  to  gratify  a  sudden  quite  wild  im- 
pulse, just  as  heedless  self-indulgence,  when  you  came  right 
down  to  it,  she  couldn't  reply.  There  were  moments  when 
it  might  be  thought  to  look  like  that.  It  was  bewildering. 
Oh,  why  hadn't  he  told  her ! 

She  remembered  storming  at  them  all;  and  sensing  the 
futility  of  it. 

She  remembered,  still  later,  being  alone  with  Miss  Russell 
and  storming  at  her.  One  thought  obsessed  her  now,  she 
must  not  leave  all  her  father's  papers,  even  in  the  safe. 
Those  men  were  strong,  determined,  ruthless.  At  least  she 
could  take  the  strong  box.  He  had  brought  it  back.  She 
made  Miss  Russell  carry  her  in  there — the  one  small  con- 
cession made  to  her  during  that  difficult  night.  She  remem- 
bered— a  vivid  bit  among  the  confusions  that  assailed  her 
— having  trouble  with  the  combination  of  the  safe.  Ap- 
parently she  had  stormed  at  that,  too.  She  remembered 
having  Miss  Russell  put  the  box  in  a  trunk,  and  tying  the 


224  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

key  around  her  neck.  It  seemed  a  tie  that  still  bound  her 
to  Henry,  that  key  lying  cold  against  her  skin,  a  reminder 
of  what  he  had  seemed  to  be,  at  least  of  what  she  had 
thought  him.  Perhaps  they  might  yet  work  it  out,  some- 
how. .  .  . 

Though  she  promised  Esther,  at  last,  that  she  would 
wait  a  few  months,  give  herself  a  reasonable  chance  to 
think.  Esther  had  said  that  she  couldn't  do  less.  And  they 
had  utterly  beaten  her  down. 

Esther  herself  slept  that  night  on  the  second  floor.  It 
seemed  wise  not  to  let  herself  slacken  in  this  great  responsi- 
bility. She  was  doing  her  duty.  She  was  going  through 
with  it,  relentlessly.  For  Esther,  too,  had  much  of  Jim 
Cantey  in  her,  and  a  humorless  touch  of  iron  from  the  Puri- 
tans back  of  her  mother.  Jim  Cantey's  forebears  had  been 
other  stock,  from  the  South.  His  grandfather  had  come 
over  the  Blue  Ridge  into  the  wilderness  nearly  a  century 
earlier. 

Will  was  right  about  Calverly.  He  came  before  eight. 
Naturally  they  didn't  tell  Miriam. 

He  proved  somewhat  difficult  to  handle.  For  a  few 
moments  he  quite  insisted  on  going  up  to  the  study.  He 
said  he  had  work  to  do  there. 

Will  found  him  rather  interesting.  He  was,  when  all 
was  said  and  done,  one  of  those  literary  chaps,  but  apart 
from  that  didn't  make  such  a  bad  impression.  He  was 
obviously  down  on  his  luck,  but  it  would  be  like  Miriam 
not  to  mind  that ;  even  to  find  it  romantically  pleasing.  It 
wasn't  hard  to  see  how  he  had  captured  the  heart  of  a 
lonely,  imaginative  girl,  walking  in  on  her  unexpectedly  like 
that.  After  insisting  for  a  little  while,  he  evidently  made 
up  his  mind  to  yield.  Will  took  it  that  he  didn't  want 
to  risk  saying  too  much.  Which  might  have  indicated  either 
a  decent  desire  to  let  Miriam  do  her  own  telling,  or,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  moral  obliquity  of  the  fellow.  Finally  he 
went  away.  .  .  .  There  was  an  element  of  excitement 
in  standing  there,  talking  with  him  and  blocking  off  the 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  225 

doorway.  He  had  been,  after  all,  a  really  conspicuous  pub- 
lic figure.  Everybody  had  heard  of  him.  Why,  they — 
Esther  and  himself — had  belonged  to  a  reading  circle,  some 
years  back,  where  Satraps  of  the  Simple  was  discussed 
as  a  masterpiece!  Phrases  from  that  one  great  book  had 
crept  into  his  own  speech.  All  that,  of  course,  was  when 
the  young  fellow  was  on  the  crest  of  his  wave,  before  peo- 
ple found  out  what  he  really  was.  Even  at  that,  Will  was 
a  little  awed.  For  the  fellow  was,  after  all,  Henry  Cal- 
verly.  The  more  impossible,  the  more  dangerous,  of  course, 
for  that  fact ;  but  none  the  less  Henry  Calverly ! 

The  subject  of  this  reverie  walked  the  streets  for  a  time, 
trying  to  puzzle  out  this  unexpected  circumstance.  He  had 
never  before  seen  the  man  in  the  doorway.  So  Miriam  was 
ill,  and  the  house  must  be  kept  quiet!  That  seemed  odd. 
She  hadn't  been  so  ill  as  that.  Her  notes  filled  one  of  his 
coat  pockets;  he  slipped  his  hand  in  around  them.  He 
sensed  it  rather  as  the  hostility  she  had  dreaded.  Very 
likely  the  man  was  her  brother-in-law.  Perhaps  they  had 
found  out.  It  was  alarming.  He  ought  to  see  her ;  but  he 
couldn't  very  well  break  in.  They  couldn't  stop  her  getting 
word  to  him.  She  would  do  that,  surely.  But  it  was  none- 
theless difficult  to  calm  himself.  He  found  a  florist's  shop 
and  sent  a  huge  bunch  of  sweet  peas,  writing  his  initials 
on  one  of  the  florist's  cards.  She  was  not  to  see  these 
flowers.  Esther,  acting  on  the  smooth  plane  of  self-evident 
duty,  gave  them  to  Mrs.  Bentley,  who  said  she  loved  sweet 
peas. 

He  had  never  before  in  his  life  felt  the  want  of  money 
as  he  felt  it  now.  Hitherto  money  had  seemed  desiraHe 
only  as  it  was  needed  to  meet  casual  expenses,  only,  really, 
because  people  pressed  for  it.  But  now  he  desired  the 
freedom  of  action  that  it  brings,  the  power  to  do.  He 
wanted  to  lavish  gifts  on  her;  and  to  plan  for  her  without 
considering  the  wealth  that  depressed  him  so  whenever  he 
permitted  himself  to  think  of  it.  That  was  why  they  sur- 
rounded her  so,  of  course.  Nobody  bothered  much  about 
poor  girls.  Mary  Maloney  came  to  mind.  .  .  .  He 


226  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

thought  rather  wildly  of  Storming  the  embattled  hills  of 
wealth,  cutting  out  a  place  for  himself,  and  going  then 
to  Miriam.  It  would  be  simple  enough  then.  That  was 
the  bitter  irony  of  life. 

He  could  write  to  her.  In  some  way  the  fire  within  him 
had  to  blaze  out.  He  had  to  find  expression. 

He  turned  back  to  the  boarding-house.  It  stood  on  a 
pleasant  quiet  street.  The  maples  arched  over  the  pave- 
ment. The  houses  were  set  back  on  green  lawns.  Here 
and  there  were  masses  of  flowering1  shrubs.  A  few  of  the 
older  places  still  had  their  fences,  of  pickets,  or  iron 
piping,  or  sanded  timbers.  Girls  in  white  sat  on  front 
porches  or  lounged  in  hammocks.  There  was  the  inter- 
mittent chatter  of  fresh  young  voices. 

A  slim  youth  of  eighteen  or  twenty,  in  clean  white  flan- 
nels came  by,  lugging  a  canvas  guitar  case.  Only  seven  or 
eight  years  back,  in  Sunbury,  Henry  Calverly  might  have 
been  seen,  at  just  this  time  of  a  June  evening,  when  the 
first  dusk  came  down,  going,  with  a  guitar,  to  the  house  of 
this  or  that  girl.  And  it  would  have  been  on  just  such  a 
street  as  this,  with  lawns,  and  shrubs,  and  arching  maples, 
and  girls  on  porches.  It  was  a  poignant  memory. 

Even  the  boarding-house  had  been  somebody's  home- 
stead— a  square  old  mansion,  of  wood,  surmounted  by  a 
square  "cupola"  and  with  a  porch  across  the  entire  front. 
A  path  had  been  worn  from  the  corner  of  the  property 
across  the  rather  casually  kept  lawn  to  the  front  steps. 

He  took  this  path. 

The  usual  summer  evening  groups  were  out  on  the  porch. 
He  had  barely  met  these  people.  He  had  caught  none  of  the 
names.  There  were  several  elderly  women,  a  few  colorless 
couples  in  later  middle  life,  one  very  young  and  very  anx- 
ious couple  with  a  baby  that  cried  a  good  deal,  some  maiden 
ladies,  and  an  assortment  of  young  people,  most  of  whom 
seemed  to  work  in  the  business  district.  They  all  made  a 
point  of  bowing  to  him. 

Another  group — all  men  and  all  strangers — were  sitting 
now  on  the  steps ;  five  or  six  of  them.  They  wore  their  hats 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  227 

at  odd  angles,  and  their  pockets  bulged  with  papers.  A 
wide  belt  of  what  appeared  to  be  cigarette  stubs  lay  across 
the  front  walk  near  the  bottom  step.  The  youngest,  a 
youth  with  blond  curls  and  a  curiously  seamed  face,  was 
violently  chewing  gum.  He  had  a  hazily  familiar  look. 
Calverly  had  known  him  or  seen  him  somewhere.  Could  it 
have  been  in  the  News  office? 

His  steps  faltered.  The  whole  group  was  hazily  familiar 
now — not  the  individuals,  but  the  kind.  They  were  like 
other  groups  of  casually  cruel,  pitilessly  persistent  young 
men  in  the  black  past.  He  found  himself  unnerved.  He 
nearly  stood  still;  had  to  drive  himself  forward.  The  porch 
above  seemed  suddenly  fiery  with  eyes. 

The  gum  chewer  got  up,  languidly. 

"Howd'do,  Mr.  Calverly,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know's  you 
remember  me.  I  saw  you  some  up  in  the  old  Annex.  Name 
of  Hadley.  This  is  Mr.  Watson,  of  the  Globe,  and  Mr. — " 

The  offhand  introductions  went  on. 

Calverly  stood  looking  guardedly  from  one  to  another. 
Something  had  happened,  and  he  didn't  know  what.  He 
couldn't  make  up  his  mind  whether  or  not  to  answer  to  the 
name.  And  what  did  they  mean  by  using  it  so  baldly?  To 
trap  him,  perhaps.  .  .  .  He  simply  stood  there,  looking. 

''Perhaps  you  haven't  heard  the  news,  Mr.  Calverly  ?" 

It  was  the  one  called  Hadley. 

Calverly  bent  a  blank  face  on  him. 

"Mrs.  Watt  died  this  afternoon.  Just  too  late  for  the 
afternoon  papers." 

The  phrase,  "Mrs.  Watt,"  had  a  curiously  incongruous 
sound.  They  had  invariably  spoken  of  her,  back  in  Sun- 
bury,  as  "Madame." 

The  voice  was  going  on.  And  the  others  were  putting 
in  questions. 

More  intensely  than  at  any  other  time  during  the  past 
twenty-four  hours  he  had  the  feeling  of  being  dragged 
along.  In  his  mind  he  couldn't  keep  up.  He  knew,  of 
course,  on  the  surface  of  his  mind,  that  of  all  the  blows  that 
had  lately  fallen  on  him,  this,  it  would  certainly  appear 


228  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

later  on,  was  the  hardest.  Still,  he  couldn't  feel  it,  grasp 
it,  believe  it.  It  might  almost  have  been  falling  on  some- 
body else. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  the  money?"  asked  a 
sallow,  and  cynical,  young  man,  after  a  scrutiny  that  took  in 
his  hat,  clothes,  shoes. 

He  managed  to  reply  with  a  "What  money  ?" — hopelessly 
trying  to  gain  a  little  time  in  which  to  think  the  situation 
out  and  shape  a  course.  But  all  he  could  think,  with  the 
little  time  gained,  was  that  he  had  had  to  knot  one  of  his 
shoe-strings  that  morning.  He  wished  the  man  would  stop 
looking  at  it.  He  knew  well  enough  that  he  looked  seedy. 

"She  left  it  all  to  you,  you  know.    About  two  millions." 

"Sounds  pretty  good,"  put  in  the  gum  chewer. 

Calverly  could  only  throw  out  a  hand  in  ineffectual  pro- 
test. 

"Are  you  going  out  there  ?"  asked  another. 

Calverly  shook  his  head.  He  collected  himself  now 
enough  to  frame  a  negative  attitude. 

"I  can't  talk  to  you,"  he  said. 

"Not  even  about  your  experiences  living  under  the  other 
name  ?" 

This  was  a  sharp  shot,  from  one  who  hadn't  spoken 
before.  Calverly  turned  a  troubled  gaze  on  him,  but  made 
no  reply. 

"Did  Mrs.  Watt  know  that  you  called  yourself  Staf- 
ford?" asked  Mr.  Watson. 

Again  he  merely  shook  his  head. 

"Did  this  Chicago  lawyer  know — what's  his  name?— 
Parker?" 

"I  simply  can't  talk  to  you,"  he  said. 

"  'Nothing  to  say,' "  remarked  Hadley,  lightly  but  with  a 
touch  of  passing  friendliness.  For,  after  all,  Calverly  had 
worked,  however  briefly,  on  his  paper  and  the  protective 
clan  instinct  was  at  work  within  him. 

The  others  kept  up  their  questions  for  a  time,  but  finally 
they  were  gone. 

Calverly  went  up  to  his  room.     If  he  could  only  think! 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  229 

Some  sort  of  a  position  he  must  take.  Probably  he  would 
have  to  step  out  now  under  his  own  name.  It  would  be  a 
relief,  if  only  it  didn't  call  for  too  much  explaining.  A 
good  deal  depended  on  the  morning  papers.  He  indulged 
"himself  in  the  weak  hope  that  they  would  be  easy  on  him. 

But  his  inner  self  knew  only  too  well  how  weak  the  hope 
was.  It  stung  him  that  night  on  a  rack  of  nightmares. 

In  the  morning,  when  he  walked  into  the  dining-room, 
the  whole  room  stiffened  against  him.  He  felt  it.  A  few 
spoke  coolly.  One  or  two  stared.  Others  looked  down  at 
their  newspapers. 

He  sat  patiently  through  the  ordeal  of  breakfast. 

Then  he  went  out  to  the  corner  and  bought  all  the 
papers.  Not  wishing  to  be  seen  bringing  them  back  into 
the  boarding-house,  he  walked  over  to  a  small  park  and  sat 
there  on  a  bench,  now  trying  to  read  the  bewildering 
"story,"  now  watching  the  squirrels  that  played  about  the 
bench. 

Still  he  couldn't  grasp  it. 

He  left  the  papers  there  half  read,  and  walked  the 
streets. 

One  marked  change  had  taken  place  in  his  spirit  which 
he  was  in  no  condition  to  note.  He  took  it  for  granted  that 
he  would  stay  here  in  the  city.  It  didn't  even  occur  to 
him  to  leave  the  boarding-house  where  he  must  now  be 
addressed  by  a  new  name. 

They  had  known  all  this,  obviously,  at  the  Canteys',  the 
evening  before.  They  had  undertaken  to  protect  Miriam 
from  him.  The  notoriety  would  be  hard  for  her.  He  had 
tried  to  let  her  see  this  great  difficulty  in  the  course  of  the 
feverish  note-writing,  but  she  had  lightly  dismissed  it. 

It  seemed  to  him  now  that  the  direct  blow  might  easily 
prove  a  good  thing.  It  cleared  the  air;  put  him  in  a  posi- 
tion to  begin  the  long  fight  standing  squarely  on  his  two  feet. 
The  thing  to  do  was  to  insist  on  releasing  her.  She  would 
perhaps,  in  her  turn,  insist  on  waiting  for  him.  He  loved 
her.  She  loved  him.  But  he  had  a  fight  to  win  before  he 
could  permit  her  to  accept  him.  ...  He  must  tell  her 


230  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

that.  No  man  at  the  door  would  stop  him  this  morning. 
Anyway,  it  was  high  time  to  begin  the  day's  work.  And 
no  love-letters  to-< 

ve  been  weak  about  this'' — so  ran  his  thoughts — "but 
that's  all  done  with.  Thank  God,  I'm  shaken  out  of  that 
now !  I've  got  a  battle  to  win.  \Ye  must  make  that  book 
the  absolute  condition.  If  I  can  do  it  as  it  should  be  done, 
then  perhaps  we  may  talk.  Not  before.  It's  got  to  be  so 
good  that  it  can't  be  resisted.  One  thing  on  our  side — 
Guard'll  know  if  it's  good!  He'll  be  interested  in  the  real 
thing.  And  if  it  is  real,  he'll  help  us  fight  for  it." 

The  trouble,  clearly,  was  the  old  difficulty  of  Henry  Cal- 
verly's  life.  He  was  plunged  again,  willy  nilly,  into  the 
rough  and  tumble  of  the  actual  world,  in  which  he  had 
never  found  a  place.  He  was  no  more  fitted  to  under 
Esther  Appleby  than  he  had  been  fitted  to  understand  that 
irate  judge  in  Chicago.  In  all  this  groping  he  was  missing 
the  point. 

He  walked  with  a  good  deal  of  determination  to   the 
Cantey  home. 

The  man  servant  blocked  the  door  as  effectually  as  had 
"Will   Appleby,   merely   handing   him   a   long,   softly    : 
envelope. 

He  opened  it,  standing  in  the  vestibule. 

Within  were  a  number  of  bank-notes,  and  a  curt  : 
letter  from  a  minor  officer  of  the  Trust  Company  with  an 
indecipherable  signature.    The  letter  informed  him  that  his 
services  in  the  matter  of  the  biography  of  the  late  1 
H.  Cantey  were  no  longer  required  and  that  salary  for  two 
weeks  was  enclosed  in  lieu  of  any  other  notice. 

He  read  it  a  number  of  times! 

"Oh,"  he  exclaimed  then,  "I  can't  take  this!" 

The  door  man  stood  motionless. 

"Here!     Take  it!"     He  thrust  the  money  into  the  ser- 
vant's hand.    "I  must  see  Miss  Cantey  at  once." 

'iss  Cantey  left  this  morning  for  California.  On  the 
eight-thirty.  That  is  all,  I  think,  sir." 

And  then  he  closed  the  door. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX 

The  Intervention  of  Mr.  Hitt,  Mr.  Holmes  Hitt,  and  Perfect 

Porcelain 

THE  fact  that  in  this  crisis  he  didn't  think  seriously  of 
self-destruction — and  at  all  only  at  moments  in  the 
night — is  not  uninteresting.  The  forces  of  reconstruction 
appeared  now  to  be  at  work  within  him.  They  took  the 
form,  in  his  thoughts,  of  an  unreasoned,  unguided  flutter  of 
energy.  It  seemed  that  he  must  be  starting  something.  He 
sat,  in  the  old  alpaca  work  coat,  at  the  marble-topped  table 
in  his  bedroom,  staring  at  a  pad  of  white  paper,  blindly 
moved  to  write  he  knew  not  what,  get  it  started  to-day.  On 
the  money  side,  it  was  immediately  necessary  to  do  some- 
thing or  other.  He  knew  that.  It  was  a  grim  fact.  .  .  . 
During  the  moments  when  his  thoughts  got  away  from  his 
will  and  wandered  off  into  the  sort  of  reverie  that  had,  it 
now  seemed,  been  the  curse  of  his  life  (he  couldn't  see  now 
that  it  had  at  times  been  and  might  again  be  the  blessing 
of  it)  the  bare  notion  of  such  an  unfortunate  being  as  him- 
self aspiring  to  the  hand  of  Miriam  Cantey  appeared  gro- 
tesque. He  was,  in  these  moments,  humble  about  it. 
At  other  moments,  however,  his  spirit  tortured  him 
by  soaring.  .  .  .  The  difficulty  was,  perhaps,  that 
the  wonderful  experience  had  come  and  gone  so  quickly. 
He  should,  perhaps,  fight  his  way  to  her  and  protect  her 
from  the  hostile  folk  about  her.  But  these  folk  were  her 
own  kin  and  kind.  They  were  her  own  family,  her  father's 
friends  and  the  trustees  of  his  estate.  They  were  the 
dominant  folk  of  the  city ;  and  he  was  an  impoverished, 
il  nobody.  It  was  like  a  mad  dream.  .  .  .  He 
was  still  in  the  grip  of  a  paralysis  of  the  spirit.  He  had 
nothing,  could  cling  to  nothing,  but  the  spark  of  vitality 
that  in  a  sense  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  him,  to 

231 


232  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

come  from  without,  but  that  none  the  less  was  burning, 
if  faintly,  within  him.  It  seemed  to  have  a  direct  bearing 
on  the  fact  that  a  week's  board  would  have  to  be  paid  in 
a  few  days.  So  he  stared  at  the  white  paper.  And  at 
intervals,  in  an  effort  to  re-orientate  himself,  read  random 
paragraphs  in  his  Montaigne. 

He  was  staring — it  was  about  noon  now — when  Mrs. 
Clark,  the  landlady,  thinly  anxious,  knocked  at  his  door. 

"It's  a  man  to  see  you,"   she  said,  extending  a  card, 

"Mr. Mr. I  hardly  know  what  we're  to  call  you 

now.     .     .     ." 

"It  may  as  well  be  Calverly,  I  suppose." 

"Mr.  Calverly.     Shall  I  tell  him  to  come  up?" 

The  card  read,  "Mr.  Hazlitt  R.  Hitt."  No  address,  no 
business. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Calverly,  "I'll  see  him."  It  didn't  seem 
to  matter,  one  way  or  the  other. 

The  caller  came  slowly  up  the  second  flight  of  stairs,  and 
paused  at  the  top  for  a  breath. 

Calverly,  waiting,  finally  came  to  the  door. 

Mr.  Hitt  proved  to  be  a  patient-looking  man  with  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles,  a  bald  head  and  a  cropped  white  mus- 
tache. The  face  was  familiar. 

"I've  seen  you  at  the  News  office,"  remarked  Mr.  Hitt, 
•with  a  good  deal  of  quiet  dignity.  "I  am  librarian  there." 

"Oh,  yes !    Of  course." 

"I  called  on  a  rather  personal  matter,  Mr.  Calverly. 
First  let  me  say  that  for  some  years  now  I've  kept  your 
Satraps  on  my  desk  to  read  now  and  then  when  I  need 
freshening  up — as  you  perhaps  read  your" — his  eyes  were 
roving  over  the  table — "your  Montaigne.  I  love  that  book. 
And  I  have  long  wanted  to  meet  you." 

Calverly  guardedly  bowed.  This  sort  of  talk  always  con- 
fused him. 

"My  business  touches  on  the  matter  of  the  Cantey  biog- 
raphy. Let  me  ask — have  you  given  up  that  work  ?" 

Calverly  drew  forth  the  crumpled  note  of  the  morning, 
smoothed  it  out,  and  handed  it  to  his  caller. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  233 

"That's  how  it  stands,"  he  said,  simply. 

"Rather  cavalier  treatment,  Mr.  Calverly." 

"It  seemed  so  to  me,  but     ...     oh  well  1" 

"You  have  no  idea  of  reopening  it?" 

Calverly  threw  out  his  hands.    "No." 

"I  had  to  ask  you  this.  The  trustees  have  offered  the 
work  to  me.  I  couldn't  consider  it  while  you  planned  to 
do  it." 

"I  don't.  You  are  quite  free.  I  appreciate  your 
calling." 

"There's  another  matter.  It  may  seem  a  bit  delicate, 
but — Mr.  Calverly,  I'm  a  much  older  man  than  you — more 
than  twice  your  age.  I  know  something  of  what  you've 
been  through.  I  don't  imagine  that  you've  been  able  to  put 
much  by.  I  know  from  experience  that  a  small  legacy  is 
anything  but  ready  money,  and  I  imagine  a  large  one  is 
even  more  deliberate." 

Calverly  looked  puzzled,  then  annoyed.  "Oh,  that 
money!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  can't  touch  that!" 

"Not  at  once,  certainly." 

"Never!" 

Mr.  Hitt  considered  this. 

"Well,"  he  said  after  a  little,  "if  you'd  care  to  take  an- 
other job  for  the  present,  by  way  of  picking  up  a  live- 
lihood, I  think  I  can  be  of  use." 

Calverly  was  touched.  The  man  seemed  like  a  father. 
But  he  threw  out  his  hands  again. 

"Who'd  want  me?"  he  replied. 

"I've  considered  that.  Of  course  this  notoriety  must  be 
very  unpleasant  for  you.  For  a  little  while  now  you're 
bound  to  be  conspicuous.  But  there's  one  line  of  business 
in  which  almost  any  sort  of  notoriety  is  welcomed — the 
advertising  business.  I  have  a  rather  distant  connection  who 
is  at  the  head  of  an  agency  here.  He's  very  enterprising. 
He  told  me  just  now  that  he'd  be  glad  to  give  you  some 
work.  And,  after  all,  we  do  have  to  keep  alive." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Calverly,  "if  I  could  be  of  the  slightest 
use  to  him." 


234  THE  PASSIONATE  .;<IM 

"He  and  I  both  think  you  could.  Would  you  care  to 
lunch  with  us  at  the  Rivoli?" 

It  was  the  only  positive  thought  that  had  entered  Cal- 
verly's  stunned  mind  that  day.  He  fell  in  with  it. 

Walking  over  town,  Mr.  Hitt  remarked : 

"Mr.  Calverly,  I've  taken  the  liberty  of  keeping  copies 
of  the  two  pieces  of  work  you  did  for  the  News,  the  one 
play  review — The  Isle  of  Delight — and  the  interview 
with  our  beloved  mayor.  My  nephew  agrees  with  me  about 
them.  As  he  put  it,  there  aren't  ten  living  Americans  who 
could  have  written  the  review,  and  only  one  who  could 
have  pictured  the  mayor  as  you  did.  It's  a  fact,  of  cc 
that  in  New  York  or  Chicago  that  interview  would  have 
been  a  journalistic  sensation.  Here  it  merely  broirjn  our 
local  grand  dukes  down  on  you  and  cost  Frank  Wintc- 
his  job.  That's  the  disadvantage  we  work  under  in  a 
smaller  city." 

Nothing  could  have  been  said  that  would  have  been  more 
soundly  stimulating  to  Henry  Calverly  on  this  day.  The 
startling  new  thought  stirred  in  his  mind  that  perhaps 
Mayor  Tim,  and  Mr.  Amme,  and  Harvey  O'Rell,  ;.:nl  Mr. 
Listerly,  and  the  Applebys  weren't,  after  all,  the  world.  For 
a  few  moments  he  almost  saw  through  his  present  confining 
walls  of  thought  into  the  freedom  beyond. 

Then  that  remark  about  Frank  \Vinterbeck  claimed  his 
attention. 

"I  didn't  know  Mr.  Winterbeck  had  lost  his  job,  Mr. 
Hitt." 

"He  did.  He's  filling  in  now  on  a  Cincinnati  paper.  In 
my  more  optimistic  moments  I  indulge  the  hope  that  some 
brighter  day  will  see  Fr  ailed  as  managing  editor 

of  the  News.  This  city  needs  a  clean  young  Hercules  with 
a  newspaper  in  his  hand,  if  a  city  ever  did.  And  I  believe 
Frank  would  be  equal  to  it." 

They  moved  in  among  the  mirrors  and  sparkling  silver 
and  crowded  tables  of  the  restaurant. 

In  a  rear  corner  a  man  rose  to  greet  them.  It  was  not 
far  from  where  Henry  had  dined  with  Mary  Maloney. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  235 

He  found  himself  clasping  the  firmly  cordial  hand  of 
Holmes  Hitt,  the  most  extraordinarily  calm  young  man  he 
had  ever  seen.  Holmes  Hitt  couldn't  have  been  thirty,  then. 
He  wore  a  perfectly  tailored  suit  of  very  light  colored  im- 
ported homespun.  His  ruddy  brown  necktie  toned  in  subtly 
with  complexion  and  hair,  which  just  bordered  on  red. 
From  his  nose-glasses  hung  a  doubled  silken  ribbon,  of  a 
deeper  brown,  that  was  fully  half  an  inch  in  width.  The 
figure  was  slimly  athletic ;  the  features  regular.  There  was 
not  a  line  or  wrinkle  in  the  face,  not  a  hint  of  care;  the 
skin  was  smooth  as  a  child's.  And  he  fairly  radiated  calm. 
The  very  poise  of  his  body,  the  way  he  moved,  the  set  of 
his  head  on  his  neck,  the  pleasantly  alert  expression  that  yet 
was  not  a  smile,  all  spoke  of  perfect  inner  balance,  or  of  an 
amazing  counterfeit.  His  voice  was  low,  even  almost 
without  emphasis ;  that  lay  altogether  in  his  choice  of  words 
and  in  the  daring  ideas  that  seemed  to  lie  back  of  the 
words.  It  was  clear  that  he  never  laughed ;  never  was  sur- 
prised, or  depressed.  His  whole  outer  being  was  a  calcu- 
lated effect,  successfully  worked  out. 

They  sat  about  the  table.  Holmes  Hitt  had  already 
ordered  luncheon.  An  extremely  deferential  headwaiter 
hovered  near,  occasionally  speaking  to  this  young  Mr.  Hitt 
by  name.  The  older  Mr.  Hitt  he  quite  ignored.  Holmes 
Hitt  was  clearly  a  person  at  the  Rivoli. 

Over  the  grapefruit,  the  elder  remarked: 

"Keeping  busy,  as  usual,  Holmes?" 

"Moderately.  I  leased  the  finest  cigar  factory  in  Cuba 
this  morning,  by  wire.  Tied  up  their  entire  product  for 
three  years." 

"Going  into  the  cigar  business,  then  ?" 

"Somewhat.  I've  grown  a  little  tired  of  trying  to  buy 
a  really  well-made  cigar.  I'm  going  to  have  some  made 
to  suit  me.  There  was  room,  too,  for  a  modern  touch  in 
distributing  high-grade  cigars  to  clubs  and  good  hotels.  So 
I've  just  put  the  two  ideas  together.  It's  really  simple 
enough.  I  shan't  waste  any  time  on  the  cheap  trade.  On 
September  first  the  'Hitt  Special'  will  be  on  sale  in  every 


236  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

club  and  hotel  that  matters  in  America.  The  'Hitt  Panatela,' 
twenty  cents;  'Hitt  Perfecto,'  twenty-five  cents;  'Hitt  Co- 
rona,' thirty  cents.  And  that's  all.  Wait  a  moment — I 
have  an  idea !" 

He  drew  out  a  fountain  pen  and  wrote  on  the  menu 
card  in  a  small,  round  hand,  clear  as  print: 

"If  a  better  cigar  than  the  'Hitt  Special'  could 
be  made  I  would  be  making  it.  At  your  club  and 
mine. — Holmes  Hitt." 

When  each  had  read  it  and  expressed  a  satisfactory  de- 
gree of  wondering  approval,  he  folded  the  card,  cut  it  with 
a  butter  knife,  and  placed  it  in  an  inner  pocket. 

"So  much  for  that!"  he  said.  "I  like  to  clean  up  a  job 
•while  I'm  at  it.  Mr.  Calverly,  you  are  the  greatest  living 
•writer  of  English." 

This  simply  couldn't  be  answered.  Calverly  bent  over 
his  meat  course. 

"That  is  why" — the  remarkable  young  man  continued — 
"I  believe  you  can  write  advertising  copy.  You  understand, 
it  is  very  exacting  work.  Or  an  exacting  part  of  the  work. 
It  is  only  a  part,  of  course.  Planning  out  a  campaign,  co- 
ordinating publicity  with  distribution,  soundly  estimating 
the  character  and  extent  of  the  market,  there's  a  man's  job! 
But  the  writing,  in  itself,  is  a  beautiful  problem.  In  fiction 
every  word  ought  to  count.  In  advertising,  it  must  count. 
It  must  be  aimed  at  and  achieve  a  positive  result — .-ell 
the  goods.  It  puts  a  real  responsibility  on  the  writing  man. 
For  training  in  force,  condensation,  even  elegance  there's 
nothing  in  the  world  equal  to  it." 

Over  the  coffee  and  cigars — "Ilitt  Perfectos" — he  came  to 
the  point. 

"The  Milhenning  Porcelain  Company  have  appropriated 
two  hundred  thousand  dollars  for  a  campaign.  I  suggested 
it,  and  shall  direct  it.  They've  been  running  along  for  a  few 
years  using  amateur  advertising — their  own,  of  course — 
and  getting  nowhere  in  particular.  Their  slogan  was  'The 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  237 

White  Bathroom.'  It  was  valueless,  of  course,  because  all 
their  competitors  offer  bathroom  fixtures  as  white  as  theirs. 
And,  at  that,  they  weren't  even  making  tile ;  though  they 
have,  I  think,  the  best  process  for  porcelain,  and  the  best 
plant.  At  my  suggestion  they  are  going  to  call  their 
product  Perfect  Porcelain.  It's  really  very  good — Perfect 
Porcelain.  I  was  able  to  point  out  to  them,  too,  how  they 
could  make  and  ship  high-grade  bathroom  tiling  more  effi- 
ciently and  a  little  more  cheaply  than  any  other  con- 
cern in  America.  So  they  are  now  building  a  new  factory. 
To-morrow  at  two  I  shall  shut  myself  up  to  work  out  the 
campaign.  I  would  like  you  there — on  the  other  side  of  a 
door.  I  shall  expect  you  to  write  copy  that  will,  within 
two  years,  put  'Perfect  Porcelain'  into  six  thousand  Amer- 
ican homes.  You'll  find  it  absorbing,  as  a  problem.  Will 
you  try  it?" 

Helpless  before  him,  aware  every  moment  that  one  did 
have  to  keep  alive,  but  with  profound  misgiving,  Calverly 
accepted. 


CHAPTER  T\YEXTY-SE\ 

Thinking  Perfect  Porcelain 

THE  City  Trust  Building  was  the  newest  and  most 
impressive  business  structure  in  the  city.  It  stood  on 
the  corner  next  east  from  the  Neu's  Building;  sixteen 
stories  high,  with  four  local  and  two  express  elevators. 
Above  the  roof  was  a  tower  from  which  could  be  seen,  on 
a  clear  day,  thirty  to  forty  miles  of  river  valley,  a  score 
or  more  of  villages  and  towns,  three  other  considerable 
cities,  and  bits  of  three  states.  People  came  from  every- 
where in  the  northern  part  of  the  state  to  ride  up  in  the 
express  elevators  and  take  in  this  view.  Lithographs  of 
the  City  Trust  Building  hung  on  the  walls  of  real  estate, 
insurance  and  hotel  offices  and  barber  shops  all  over  the 
state  and  even  in  neighboring  states  until,  in  fact,  the 
hegemony  of  Chicago  was  reached,  where,  naturally,  the 
best  wall  was  given  over  to  views  of  the  Masonic  Temple. 

The  entire  ground  floor  was  occupied  by  the  City  Trust 
Company,  with  its  wide  areas  of  mosaic  flooring,  its  massive 
glistening  marble  columns,  its  long  railings  of  pol: 
mahogany,  its  partitions  of  elaborate  brass  work  and  bev- 
eled plate  glass,  its  gravely,  even  severely  silent  banking 
gentlemen  at  mahogany  desks,  its  air  of  hushed,  awful 
authority. 

Occupying  the  fifteen  floors  above  the  bank  were  the 
offices  of  virtually  all  the  most  important  corporations 
the  most   successful   lawyers,   contractors,   promoters 
representatives  of  out-of-town  business  concerns.    Qua! 
Cummings  and  Biddeford,  for  example,  were  on  the  s< 
floor,   with  a   private  marble  stairway.     The  Great   Hills 
Pulp  and  Paper  Company  (a  strong  Painter  concern) 
on  the  floor  next  above.    All  of  the  seventh,  eighth  and  ninth 
floors  were  occupied  by  the  Valley  States  Insurance  Com- 
pany, another  Painter  propertv. 

238 


T  SIOXATE  PILGRIM  239 

So  the  City  Trust  Building,  through  its  impressive  size, 
its  choice  (in  the  real  estate  vernacular)  situation  at  the 
very  center  of  the  business  district  overlooking  Cantey 
Square,  through  its  richness  of  design  and  finish  and  the 
high  business  tone  of  its  occupants,  radiated  an  air,  an 
aura,  of  success.  It  was  the  summit  of  the  local  solid 
business  structure.  No  fly-by-night  agents  of  mining  stock 
schemes  could  have  been  found,  even  in  obscure  offices  on 
the  dark  side  of  the  building.  There  were  no  painless 
dentists,  no  manicurists.  It  was  the  home  of  financial 
reputations,  the  very  temple  of  prosperity.  .  .  .  All  of 
which  explains  why  the  offices  of  Holmes  Hitt  occupied  the 
best — the  southeastern — corner  of  the  sixteenth  floor. 

On  the  ground  glass  door  were  simply  the  three  words, 
-ed  in  black  and  gold,  "Holmes  Hitt,  Inc." 

"Within,  if  you  opened  the  door,  was  a  bare  enclosure, 
hardly  eight  feet  square,  with  a  door,  a  small  window  with 
a  calm-faced  girl  behind  it,  and  a  wooden  bench. 

r.eyond  the  inner  door  was  a  corridor,  with  offices.  At 
the  end  another  door  bore  the  inscription,  "Mr.  Hitt." 

re  were  two  rooms,  one  occupied  by  a  trimly  efficient 
young  woman  secretary,  the  other,  the  corner  room,  large, 
airy,  with  five  or  six  mahogany  chairs,  a  long,  bare  mahog- 
any table,  a  simple  little  wall  desk  (closed),  and  on  the  wall 
a  few  paintings.  The  walls  were  severely  gray ;  the  paint- 
uad  clearly  been  selected  for  their  coloring.  They  were 
gay  outdoor  scenes,  one  of  yachts  and  small  boats  in  a 
summer  harbor,  one  of  a  California  poppy  field,  one  a 
portrait  of  a  girl  in  yellow  against  a  Japanese  screen,  one 
a  nude  girl  reclining  by  a  sunlit  pool  and  reflected  radiantly 
in  it.  Nowhere  was  there  a  pigeonhole  of  papers,  nowhere 
a  sign  of  the  familiar  clutter  of  business  offices. 

Thither,  promptly  at  nine  in  the  morning,  came  Henry 
Calvcrly,  carrying  his  old  alpaca  coat  wrapped  in  a  news- 
paper. 

The  calm-faced  girl  at  the  door  kept  him  waiting  for  a 
while,  on  the  bench.  He  sat  there,  parcel  on  knees,  staring 
at  a  bare  wall,  frowning  a  little,  fighting  back  tumultuous 


240  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

thoughts.  But  among  these  thoughts,  at  moments  domina- 
ing  them,  was  a  purpose.  Through  a  wakeful  night  he  had 
been  working  it  painfully  out ;  he  must  live  on,  he  must 
fight,  he  must  win.  Miriam  might  need  him  terribly;  but 
he  couldn't  go  again  to  her  with  empty  hands.  Somehow — 
no  matter  how — he  must  carve  out  a  place  for  himself  here 
in  this  rough,  actual  world.  Some  sort  of  place ;  get  a 
reasonable  footing  until  he  could  write  again ;  earning  some- 
thing, a  little  something,  anyway.  It  had  come  down  now 
to  a  final  test  of  his  metal.  Either  he  was  designed  to  stand 
alone  as  an  inhabitant  of  this  particular  earth,  or  he  was 
not.  It  was  high  time,  once  and  for  all,  to  find  out.  And 
•with  Miriam  spirited  off,  with  all  that  had  so  suddenly  come 
to  be  vital,  real,  in  his  life  hanging  in  suspense,  the  time 
was  short.  So  he  was  strung  high,  and  wore  every  moment 
that  slight  frown. 

He  had  come  over  town  in  a  street-car.  Along  the  side 
of  the  car,  above  the  windows,  was  a  row  of  advertise- 
ments. On  every  fence  and  hoarding,  on  the  side  walls  and 
even  the  sloping  roofs  of  tenements,  barns  and  sheds,  were 
advertisements.  His  copy  of  the  morning  Neivs  seemed 
full  of  them.  He  had  of  recent  years  been  increasingly  if 
what  is  sometimes  termed  subconsciously  aware  of  this 
blatant  pressure  of  the  manufacturing  world.  He  had 
thought,  at  moments  bitterly,  of  his  nation  as  a  country 
organized  for  the  one  great  purpose  of  selling  merchandise 
and,  more  incidentally,  for  spending  pleasurably  the  result- 
ing profits.  He  had  sometimes  visualized  in  his  mind's 
eye  a  nation-wide  aggregation  of  tired,  plodding  house- 
holders struggling  patiently  along  through  life,  more  or 
less  in  debt,  all  of  them,  or  their  wives  and  children, 
pressed,  lured,  tempted  at  every  turn  to  buy  this,  that, 
a  thousand  others.  He  had  seen  it  all  with  the  eye  of 
failure,  or  at  least  with  the  eye  of  one  who  hadn't  been 
able  to  keep  in  step  with  his  time,  and  had  found  it  inter- 
mittently depressing.  He  sensed  a  note  of  insistent  falsity 
in  the  myriad  claims  to  perfection.  Everything  was  the 
beat,  from  soaps  to  cereals,  from  flours  to  folding  beds, 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  241 

from  patent  medicines  to  chewing  gums.  Everything  saved 
your  money,  or  your  health,  or  advanced  you  in  life. 
Everything  was  imperative. 

Holmes  Hitt  had  seized  on  this  tendency  with  his  phrase, 
"Perfect  Porcelain."  With  all  these  other  commodities 
claiming  perfection,  his  should  be  perfection. 

Power — that  was  it!  An  influence  that  reached  under 
and  over  and  around  the  churches  and  schools  into  the 
homes.  During  his  recent  years  of  knockabout  living,  here 
and  there  about  the  country,  Calverly  had  noted  the  stand- 
ardizing influence  of  this  mighty  force  in  the  habits  of 
communities,  in  their  similarities  of  dress  and  of  eating 
and  drinking  (the  same  things  everywhere),  in  the  very 
songs  and  jokes  that  passed  current.  And  before  this 
irresistible  tendency  he  had  seen  individual  judgment  often 
overwhelmed  and  left  forgotten.  For  that  matter  he  had 
lately  encountered  it  himself,  during  his  brief  few  days  on 
the  News.  Predominant  business  forces,  curiously  related, 
bound  together  in  a  common  struggle  for  existence  and 
profits  as  in  a  common,  if  un formulated,  point  of  view, 
•would  no  more  permit  true  observation  and  comment  re- 
garding political  matters  than  they  would  permit  it  regard- 
ing the  plays  and  "shows"  that  came  to  town.  In  either 
case  advertisers  would  object,  forcefully  and  successfully. 
And  the  same  or  a  similar  hand*  touched,  he  knew,  every 
publication  in  the  land,  and  shadowed  every  imaginable 
topic  of  discussion. 

On  this  morning,  however,  he  found  himself  somewhere 
between  this  former  mental  attitude  and  a  new  one.  He  was 
about  to  become  an  advertising  man  himself.  He  was 
allying  himself  with  the  overwhelming  tendency,  moving  at 
last  with  the  current.  There  were  moments,  during  the 
ride  across  town,  when  it  seemed  like  surrender.  There 
were  other  curiously  illuminating  moments  when  he  found 
himself  questioning  the  tenets  that  had  so  long  under- 
lain his  own  perhaps  rather  emotionally  clouded  train  of 
thought ;  found  himself  sensing,  vaguely,  that  other  truth 
that  it  is  not  good  for  a  man  to  be  too  long  alone,  that  few 


242  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

minds  have  the  natural  strength  or  range  of  vision  to  be 
wholly  right  when  the  other  few  hundreds  of  millions  of 
human  folk  seem  wrong,  that  it  is  even  good,  if  one  is 
not  to  drift  into  a  spirit  of  personal  defiance  that  finally 
closes  the  eyes  and  ears  to  truth  itself,  to  submit  to  disci- 
pline, to  do  his  little  detached  job  faithfully  without  dwell- 
ing too  painstakingly  on  its  philosophical  or  even  ethical 
foundations.  He  even,  at  moments,  got  as  far  as  that  out 
of  the  helpless  egoism  in  which  he  had  lived  so  long,  and 
it  was  probably  good  for  him.  At  least,  it  was  the  one 
small  glimmer  of  light  by  which  he  was  now  guided. 
Without  it  he  could  never  have  stepped  into  the  express 
elevator  and  permitted  them  to  whizz  him  up  to  the  six- 
teenth floor.  One  way  or  another,  however  painful  the 
process,  he  had  to  establish  some  degree  of  working  human 
relationship  with  the  life  about  him.  And  if  the  run  of 
human  life  was  imperfect,  why  he  was  far  from  perfect 
himself!  Or  so,  awkwardly,  confusedly,  glimmeringly,  it 
was  coming  to  him. 

At  this  time  Calverly  had  not  seen  Rodin's  statue  of 
"The  Thinker."  But  the  fantastic  thought  crept  into  his 
mind  of  a  cave  man  who  found  it  difficult  to  kill  and  take, 
yet  who  must  do  just  that  or  himself  die.  .  .  .  lie 
thought,  too,  with  what  might  almost  be  called  a  whimsical 
grimness,  of  Hamlet  the  Dane. 

An  efficient-looking,  well  dressed  young  woman  came 
in,  glanced  at  him,  waited  while  the  calm-faced  girl  pressed 
a  button,  opened  the  partition  door  and  passed  in.  A 
moment  later  she  reappeared,  made  sure  that  he  was  Mr. 
Calverly,  showed  him  along  the  corridor,  through  the  outer 
private  office  and  into  the  corner  room. 

There  she  left  him.  The  heavy  door  swung  to  behind 
her. 

He  looked  about  at  the  paintings.     They  pleased  him. 
He  loved  color.    He  walked  to  a  window  and  gazed  out  at 
the  view.    The  extraordinary  Mr.  Holmes  Ilitt  had  clearly 
an  eye  for  the  beautiful.     And  what  an  office!    If  it 
an  office.     Nothing  but  the  gray  walls  and  heavy  darker 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  243 


gray  rrg  that  all  but  covered  the  polished  floor,  the 
any  chairs,  the  glowing  pictures,  and  the  bare  polished 
table.  Not  even  a  desk,  except  that  one  little  almost 
.ir  against  the  wall!  And  breathing  out  of  the 
severely  rich  furniture,  the  soft  mg  under  his  feet,  the  airy 
spaciousness  the  paintings,  he  felt  the  very  living  instinct 
of  success. 

1  he  young  woman  secretary  brought  in  a  fresh  whiff  of 
hen  she  unexpectedly  entered.     She  was  like  another 
and  not  inexpensive  bit  of  decoration. 

"Yon  m;;y  want  to  look  these  over,"  she  remarked,  and 
left  a  heap  of  papers  on  an  end  of  the  table. 

He  glanced  them  over  ;  then  drew  up  a  chair,  plunged  his 
fingers  into  his  hair  ;  studied  them. 

There  were  proofs  of  advertisements,  all  built  about  that 

ite  bathroom"  phrase.     There  were  booklets  picturing 

a  porcelain  factory,  showing  the  processes  of  manufacture; 

'ustrated,  with  officers  of  the  company;  a  clip 

of  letters  bearing  on  the  advertising  problem;  blue  prints 

of  the  new  tile  factory  ;  and  so  on. 

He  a.cked  the  young  woman  for  pencil  and  paper,  and 
tried  rephrasing  the  advertisements  about  the  "Perfect 
Porcelain"  idea. 

had  given  up  the  idea  of  putting  on  the  alpaca  coat. 

It  would  look  hopelessly  out  of  place  in  this  magnificent 

i.     In  fact,  dwelling  at  moments  on  the  atmosphere  of 

the  place,  on  the  air  of  complacent  prosperity  that  was  so 

ly  reflected  in  the  dress  and  bearing  of  this  young 

woman  in  the  next  room,  even  in  the  face  of  the  calm  girl 

at  the  outer  door,  he  despaired  of  ever  fitting  into  the  job. 

He  wasn't  like  this.     In  his  heart  he  wasn't  like  it. 

After  each  such  moment  he  plunged  at  his  self-appointed 
sk  ;  wrote  a  new  version  of  the  advertisement. 
At  half  past  ten  the  door  opened  and  Holmes  Hitt  ap- 
He  wore  a  smoothly  pressed,  perfect  fitting  suit 
i  |  >alc  linen,  with  a  tie  of  cool  blue  silk.    The  wide  ribbon 
l-.-il  hung  from  his  nose  glasses  was  blue,  matching  the  tie. 
he  merest  corner  of  a  handkerchief,  bordered  with  palest 


244  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

blue,  showed  above  the  breast  pocket.  The  smooth  young 
face  was  quietly,  pleasantly,  yet  unsmilingly  alert. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said ;  glanced  at  the  papers,  and,  per- 
haps with  amusement,  at  Calverly's  tousled  hair ;  drew  up  a 
chair.  "What  are  you  doing?" 

"Oh,  just  trying  an  advertisement." 

"Let  me  see." 

But  before  looking  over  the  scribbled  pages,  the  calm 
eyes  of  Holmes  Hitt  surveyed  the  room.  They  rested  on 
the  newspaper  parcel,  on  a  chair.  He  reached  under  the 
table.  A  buzzer  sounded  faintly.  The  decorative  secretary 
promptly  appeared. 

Holmes  Hitt's  gaze  indicated  the  parcel. 

The  secretary  glanced  from  it  to  Calverly. 

"It's  mine,"  said  that  young  man,  a  little  flushed,  feeling, 
like  his  parcel,  more  than  ever  out  of  place. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  remarked  Holmes  Hilt. 

The  secretary  disappeared. 

"As  for  this  stuff,"  remarked  Holmes  Hitt,  fingering  the 
papers,  "what  you've  done  is  to  write  nice  phrases.  And 
too  many  of  them.  Nothing  in  that.  Later  to-day  I'll  take 
you  over  to  the  factory.  You  must  see  the  work  and  get 
the  feeling  of  the  men  behind  it,  their  ability  and  energy 
and  faith  in  their  product.  You  must  eat,  breathe,  dream 
Perfect  Porcelain — until  you're  fairly  bursting  with  the 
impulse  to  tell  people  not  only  how  good  it  is  but  how 
necessary  it  is.  Then  you  must  visualize  the  woman  you'll 
be  writing  at." 

"Woman?" 

"Certainly.  You're  dealing  with  homes.  Every  home 
means  a  woman.  You've  got  to  think  Perfect  Porcelain  so 
hard  that  you  think  it  straight  from  your  head  into  hers, 
get  her  to  dwelling  on  the  thought  of  Perfect  Porcelain 
until  nothing  else  will  do— nothing  in  the  world.  Give  up 
your  whole  being  to  it.  Fight  for  those  six  thousand 
homes,  one  by  one.  Win  them.  There's  no  other  way. 
It  must  crowd  out  of  your  mind  every  other — " 

A  soft  buzzer  sounded. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  245 

Calmly  Holmes  Hitt  rose,  slid  back  a  panel  over  the  desk, 
and  drew  out  a  telephone  instrument. 

"It's  for  you,"  he  said. 

A  feminine  voice  fell  on  Calverly's  ear.    A  familiar  voice. 

"It's  me,"  said  the  voice ;  adding,  after  a  moment,  "Mary 
Maloney.  This — is  Mr.  Staf — Mr.  Calverly,  isn't  it  ?  ... 
I  called  up  the  News,  and  they  said  I  might  find  you  here. 
I  had  an  awful  time  getting  anybody  there  that  would  say 
anything.  .  .  .  Where  am  I?  Why,  right  down  here 
by  the  News  building,  in  the  drug  store.  Listen!  Could 
you  come  down  for  just  a  minute?  Two  telegrams  came. 
They  just  left  them  lying  on  the  table  in  the  hall,  and  I 
thought  they  might  be  important,  and  so  I  .  ,  ." 

Calverly  turned. 

Already  the  secretary  had  entered,  with  mail.  She  stood 
at  Holmes  Hitt's  elbow  while  he  went  swiftly  through  the 
thick  pile  of  papers,  pausing  now  and  then  to  outline  a 
brief  reply. 

"I'm  afraid  I — I'd  better  step  out,  just  for  a  moment." 

Holmes  Hitt  merely  moved  his  head. 

Uncomfortably  aware  that  he  was  being  drawn  mo- 
mentarily farther  from  Perfect  Porcelain  and  the  new 
relation  with  life,  Calverly  went  down  to  the  drug  store. 

Mary's  little  plump  person  rose  from  a  stool  by  the  soda 
fountain.  Her  face  was  suffused  with  color.  She  was 
smiling  expectantly.  She  seemed  unexpectedly  pretty.  Her 
great,  curiously  honest  eyes  moved  him  to  a  feeling  of 
gentle  regard,  even  of  tenderness,  that  was  yet  like  a  faint 
revival  of  an  old  memory,  of  something  that  had  happened 
very  long  ago. 

One  telegram  was  from  Parker,  in  Chicago. 

It  read,  in  the  familiar  telegraphic  jumble  of  words, — > 

"Can  you  come  at  once  discuss  estate  as  there  is  no  other 
legatee  I  prefer  take  no  steps  without  advice  from  you 
and  there  are  many  matters  should  be  gone  over  carefully 
or  if  you  can  not  come  will  go  to  you  important." 


246  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

This  stirred  no  particular  interest  in  his  breast,  so  he 
slipped  it  into  a  coat  pocket. 

The  other  was  from  Humphrey  Weaver,  offering  either 
to  come  at  once  or  to  send  money.  A  few  extra  words  of 
cordial  import  warmed  his  heart  as  such  words  do  when 
found  on  a  telegram  form. 

He  walked  out  with  Mary  to  the  street. 

His  preoccupation  fell  away  for  the  moment.  Here  she 
was;  on  his  hands;  rather  confused.  Something  must  be 
said.  And  her  manner,  simple,  almost  alarmingly  open, 
made  it  evident  that  she  had  been  thinking  every  moment 
of  him.  She  even  seemed  to  assume,  like  a  child,  that  he, 
too,  must  have  been  thinking  of  her. 

"You  were  good  to  come,  Mary,"  he  said. 

"Oh  no.  I  thought  you  ought  to  have  them.  And  I 
Jdidn't  think  they'd  object  at  the  office.  I  never  asked  for 
time  off  before,  this  way.  I  didn't  care  much.  I've  thought 
lately  I  might  look  up  another  job.  You  get  tired  of  doing 
'just  one  thing." 

He  couldn't  reply  to  this. 

"The  girls  were  awfully  excited,"  she  ventured.  "At  the 
news,  I  mean," 

Her  eager  confusion  was  fading. 

"I — I  could  see  that  you  were  going  through  trouble," 
she  added,  timidly. 

"I  was,  Mary."  His  voice  was  so  gentle  that  she  glanced 
up  at  him.  "I  still  am." 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  murmured. 

On  the  step  of  a  River  Street  car  she  hesitated;  looked 
back. 

He  was  standing  motionless,  holding  his  hat  above  his 
head. 

She  bit  her  lip.  The  car  rolled  away.  She  went  in  and 
looked  with  swimming  eyes  for  a  seat. 

Calverly  returned  to  the  room  at  the  top  of  the  City 
Trust  Building,  pausing  only  to  telegraph  Humphrey  that 
he  had  a  job,  was  in  excellent  spirits,  and  needed  no  help. 

Holmes  Hitt  made  room  for  him  at  the  table. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  247 

"There's  no  other  way,"  said  Holmes  Hitt,  taking  up  a 
half-tone  of  an  elaborately  equipped  bathroom.  "By  the 
sheer  power  of  words  you  have  to  move  Perfect  Porcelain 
from  the  factory  to  the  freight  yards,  over  hundreds,  even 
thousands,  of  miles  of  railroads,  through  wholesale  and 
retail  plumbing  establishments,  into  six  thousand  of  those 
homes.  You  have  to  get  specifications  for  Perfect  Porcelain 
into  the  plans  for  six  thousand  new  houses.  You  can  only 
do  that  by  stirring  six  thousand  women  to  the  point  of 
insisting,  even  of  overcoming  the  objections  of  their  archi- 
tects. All  you  really  have,  of  course,  is  the  white  paper 
before  you.  That's  all — white  paper,  plus  a  brain.  You 
can  write.  No  man  on  earth  can  make  a  phrase  live  as 
you  can.  But  can  you,  with  a  phrase,  lift  that  Perfect 
Porcelain  bathtub,  shower,  wash-stand,  out  of  the  factory, 
and  install  it  in  a  house?" 

Calverly  had  sunk  back  in  his  chair. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied.   "I  doubt  it." 

"I  don't,  Calverly.    Not  for  a  minute." 

Calverly  regarded  the  smooth  face,  the  calm  eyes,  the 
studiously  arranged  color-scheme  of  the  young  man  before 
him ;  considered  him  against  the  background  of  the  im- 
pressively rich  room.  And  studying  the  man,  all  he  could 
think  was — "Perfect  Porcelain!  Perfect  Porcelain!"  For 
Holmes  Hitt  was  hard,  shiny,  clean;  was  smoothly  impene- 
trable. 

"There  are  other  makes  of  bathroom  fixtures,  aren't 
there?"  he  asked,  dully. 

"Certainly." 

"Some  of  them  about  as  good  as  this?" 

"None  of  them  better." 

"And  it's  going  to  cost  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars 
to  exploit  this  make.  That'll  be  added  to  the  price,  won't 
it  ?  This  room,  part  of  your  income,  even  my  little  income, 
will  all  be  added  to  the  price  ?" 

"Certainly." 

"Why  not  save  all  that  money  and  let  the  woman  buy  any 
make  she  likes?" 


248  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"Because  we  shall  be  raising  the  standard  of  comfort 
and  cleanliness  in  the  homes  of  America.  We  shall  be 
stimulating  business,  stimulating  life  itself.  Energy  put  out 
in  the  mercantile  field  creates  new  markets,  new  business. 
Life  isn't  an  accumulation  of  things!  Life  is  energy,  and 
energy  is  life.  The  money  spent  in  pushing  Perfect  Por- 
celain will  force  a  higher  standard  of  manufacture.  It  will 
stabilize  small  businesses  all  over  America.  It  will  improve 
advertising  itself.  But  above  all  it  will  make  better  homes. 
Homes  that  are  more  livable-in." 

It  was  difficult  to  withstand  this  flow  of  easy  vet  alert 
talk. 

"But  how  about  the  poor  devil  who  has  to  pay  for  all 
this,  that  woman's  husband?  We're  going  to  force  it  on 
him,  by  stirring  his  wife's  desire  for  it.  Aren't  we?" 

"Certainly." 

"Is  that  sound  economy?" 

"Certainly.  Better  homes  make  better  men.  .  .  .  P.y 
the  way,  note  that  phrase  down — 'Better  homes  make  better 
men.' " 

Calverly  obediently  wrote  it  down. 

"And  remember  this :  life  isn't  a  stable  thing.  You  can't 
put  life  away  on  a  shelf  and  expect  to  find  the  same  thing 
you  left  there.  It's  fluid.  It's  volatile.  Business  is  always 
either  shrinking  or  growing.  Men  are  either  growing  or 
shriveling.  I  personally  stand  for  growth.  Every  time  I 
improve  a  home  by  installing  a  Milhenning  bathroom,  by 
'just  that  much  I  improve  America." 

Calverly  bent  forward  over  the  papers. 

"You've  got  to  think,  feel,  believe  Perfect  Porcelain  with 
every  ounce  of  energy  in  your  mind  and  spirit,  before  you 
can  write  a  sound  line  of  copy." 

Calverly  looked  at  him,  a  kindling  light  in  his  eye,  a  touch 
of  color  in  his  cheeks. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "I'll  do  it.  I'll  put  everything  else 
aside.  It's  worth  the  chance." 

"It  is  your  chance,"  said  Holmes  Hitt. 

The  door  opened. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  249 

"There  are  several  newspaper  men  outside,"  said  the 
secretary,  quietly,  "to  see  Mr.  Calverly." 

"I  won't  see  them !"  cried  that  young  man. 

Holmes  Hitt  thought  this  over.  "Yes  you  will,"  he  said. 
"You'll  have  to.  May  as  well  get  it  over  with." 

"But  I've  told  them  all  I — "  And  Calverly,  sputtering, 
went  out  to  the  bare  little  coop  by  the  outer  door.  Three 
young1  men  were  sitting  on  the  bench.  Two  of  them  he 
seemed  to  know.  They  had  doubtless  been  in  the  group 
at  the  boarding-house. 

"Mr.  Calverly,"  said  one,  "we  hear  from  Chicago  that 
your  attorney  in  Chicago  expects  you  out  there  to-day." 

Calverly  spread  his  hands. 

"He  confirms  the  news  that  the  entire  fortune  has  been 
left  to  you.  You're  a  millionaire,  of  course.  When  are 
you  leaving?" 

"I'm  not  leaving." 

Another  spoke  up.  "Of  course,  Mr.  Calverly,  you'll 
understand  that  this  is  a  very  dramatic  occurrence.  The 
papers  can  hardly  ignore  it.  Won't  you  tell  us  something 
about  your  plans  for  the  future?  Will  you  take  up  novel- 
writing  again?" 

"No,"  muttered  Calverly,  in  great  discomfort.  "I  don't 
know !  I  can't  talk  to  you !"  He  shut  his  eyes.  He  could 
feel  again  the  slow  torture  of  that  dragged-out  trial,  and 
the  slower  torture  of  the  prison  life  that  followed  it.  Why 
couldn't  they  let  him  alone?  He  could  have  screamed  at 
them. 

"You  said  you  were  not  going  to  Chicago?" 

"I  said  that.    I'm  not." 

"Then  this  Mr.  Parker  will  be  coming  here  ?" 

"No.    I  don't  know." 

"Of  course,  Mr.  Calverly,  you  must  realize  that  in  taking 
this  attitude  you  are  suggesting  a  bigger  'story*  than  any 
we've  got  so  far.  Do  you  mean  to  stay  that  you  are  refusing 
this  fortune?" 

"Yes!"  The  inner  pressures  at  last  found  an  outlet  in 
voice,  gesture,  blazing  eye.  "I  mean  just  that!  I  won't 


250  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

touch  her  filthy  money !  I  don't  want  ever  to  hear  it  spoken 
of  again.  Now  get  out  and  leave  me  alone !" 

He  slammed  the  door  on  them.  The  girl  at  the  window 
looked  after  him,  mildly  surprised.  Doors  weren't  slammed 
in  the  establishment  of  Holmes  Hitt,  Inc. 

He  loitered  in  the  corridor.  He  must  think  Perfect 
Porcelain.  He  set  his  face ;  marched  back  doggedly. 

Then,  before  the  unruffled,  momentarily  exasperating 
Holmes  Hitt  he  exploded. 

"I  don't  care  for  advertising!"  he  cried.  ''It's  debasing! 
It's  vicious !  Just  because  the  wide  reading  of  magazines 
and  newspapers  gives  you  a  chance — because  this  new 
scheme  of  putting  into  people's  minds  the  thing  you  want 
them  to  think — " 

\Yithout  lifting  an  eyelid  or  shifting  a  foot,  Holmes  Hitt, 
at  this  point,  surprisingly,  dramatically,  brought  down  a 
flat  hand  on  the  table  with  a  bang. 

"New?"  he  said,  with  only  a  little  more  vigor  than 
usual.  "New?  My  dear  man,  don't  you  know  that  adver- 
tising has  been  the  greatest  force  in  the  world  since  life 
began!  New?  Why,  bless  your  heart!  do  you  know  who 
vrere  the  greatest  advertising  men  in  history?  They  were 
Alexander,  Julius  Caesar,  Ghengis  Kahn,  Peter  the  Great, 
Martin  Luther,  Ben  Franklin.  .  .  .  Caesar  writes  his 
own  'Commentaries';  puts  them  into  every  school  in  the 
civilized  world.  Why?  Advertising!  .  .  .  Luther  bums 
the  Pope's  Bull.  Where  ?  In  his  old  porcelain  stove  ?  Not 
a  bit  of  it!  He  burns  it  at  the  city  gate.  Why?  Adver- 
tising! .  .  .  Kings  travel  around  laying  cornerstones 
and  addressing  orphan  asylums  and  attending  teas ;  have 
their  pictures  taken  in  every  kind  of  costume.  Why? 
Advertising!  .  .  .  Whistler,  the  painter,  ties  a  rib- 
bon around  that  white  lock  of  his;  insults  people;  wears 
queer  clothes.  Why?  Advertising!  .  .  .  What  were 
Tennyson's  old  wide-brimmed  hat  and  long  cloak  ?  Adver- 
tising!" 

"Oh  come!  Those  things  aren't  a  parallel  to  this  com- 
mercial— " 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  251, 

"Aren't  they  though!  Commercial?  What's  commerce? 
Selling  things,  isn't  it?  Suppose  a  man  gives  his  life  to 
building  up  a  manufacturing  business.  Suppose  he  makes 
honest  goods;  believes  they're  the  best.  He  wants  people 
to  know  about  them,  doesn't  he?" 

"He  wants  their  money." 

"Money,  nothing !  He  wants  success,  power,  yes.  That's 
human.  What  does  your  soldier,  your  statesman,  your 
reformer,  your  novelist,  want  ?  Success,  fame,  power !  One 
man  sells  his  goods,  another  sells  himself.  What's  tha 
difference  ?"' 

Again  the  soft  buzzer  sounded. 

"For  you,"  said  Holmes  Hitt,  with  a  quizzical  glance. 

And  again  it  was  a  woman's  voice. 

"It's  Margie — Margie  Daw — Henry.    I  want  to  see  you." 

"Well— I— I'm  busy  just  now." 

"Are  you  engaged  for  lunch  ?" 

"For  lunch — why,  no,  I  don't  think  so." 

"Well  then,  meet  me — let's  see,  I  don't  want  to  go  to 
Philippe's — I'll  tell  you!  You're  a  millionaire  now!  Meet 
me  at  the  Rivoli,  at  one." 

Calverly  came  slowly  back  toward  the  table. 

He  knew,  now,  that  Holmes  Hitt  was  a  force.  He  would 
have  given  almost  anything  in  the  world  just  then  to  feel 
even  a  little  of  that  clear  mental  energy  in  his  own  worn 
out  brain.  He  thought  of  it  as  worn  out.  Even  so,  the 
man  fired  him.  The  trite  phrase,  "Energy  is  Life,"  rang 
in  his  ears  like  a  new  gospel. 

He  felt  those  steady  eyes  on  him. 

"It  all  comes  down  to  thinking  it,"  said  Holmes  Hitt. 
"And  thinking  it  means  wanting  to  do  it.  You  can  put 
Perfect  Porcelain  into  six  thousand  homes  if  you  want  to. 
The  question  is,  Do  you  want  to?" 

"Yes,"  said  Calverly,  "I  do." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHT 

In  Which  Margie  Daw  Finds  Herself  Useful  as  a 
Stimulant 

"'TpHEY'RE  pounding  you  pretty  hard,  aren't  they?" 
JL     observed  Margie.     She  looked  fresh,  pretty,  more 
than  usually  boyish.     The  gaiety  and  clatter  of  the  restau- 
rant suited  her  to-day. 

Calverly  inclined  his  head.  His  sensitive  mouth  twitched. 
"But  I  don't  care,"  he  said.  Holmes  Hitt  wouldn't  have 
cared. 

"That's  hardly  true,  Henry.  Of  course  you  care.  And 
you've  got  to  do  something  about  it." 

"Work's  the  thing!"  said  he,  with  sudden  emphasis. 

''What  work?    Advertising  business?" 

He  nodded. 

She  shook  her  head ;  firmly. 

"It  is.  You  don't  know,  Margie.  How  I've  lived.  It's 
practical  life.  It's  the  world.  I've  got  to  take  my  place 
in  it." 

Again  her  little  head  moved  in  a  decided  negative. 

"What  else?" 

She  nibbled  at  her  salad ;  considered ;  finally  leaned  her 
elbows  on  the  table  and  let  her  bright  eyes  rest  thought- 
fully on  him. 

"Henry,  I've  just  learned — it's  really  why  I  called  you 
up — that  we've  taken  a  Sunday  syndicate  story  about  you 
from  the  National  Feature  Service.  The  Sunday  editor 
arranged  it  by  wire  this  morning.  It's  going  to  be  one  of 
those  hideous  things — colored  picture  of  Henry  Calverly 
as  a  famous  writer  wearing  a  laurel  wreath ;  another  of 
Henry  Calverly  in  a  striped  suit  looking  out  between  iron 
bars—" 

He  shivered.  His  eyes — she  thought  them  like  a  dog's 
jnow — hung  on  hers.  She  knew  she  was  torturing  him. 

252 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  253 

"Yes,  really.  I  was  there  when  he  ordered  the  drawings. 
The  story  is  to  dwell  on  the  sensational  ups  and  downs  of 
your  life." 

His  lips  moved.    She  caught  the  one  word : 

"Please!" 

"But  we've  got  to  consider  this,  Henry.  It's  a  fact. 
That  story's  going  all  over  the  country.  There'll  be  others. 
They'll  pound  you  right  down  if  you  let  them.  The  ques- 
tion is,  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  How  are  you  going  to 
meet  it?" 

He  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand.  He  was  silent  so  long 
that  she  fell  to  eating  again. 

"I'll  ignore  it,"  she  thought  he  said. 

"But  you  can't,  Henry !" 

"I  can.    They  can't  touch  my  private  life." 

He  faltered  a  little  on  this.    They  could  and  they  would. 

"You're  going  to  make  me  speak  plainly — " 

"Why  talk  of  it  at  all!" 

"Perhaps  I  can  help.    I'd  like  to." 

He  was  silent ;  head  on  hand ;  eyes  downcast  now.  Play- 
ing with  his  fork.  He  couldn't  eat ;  she  was  bearing  so  on 
those  old  worn  nerves. 

"You're  a  page  one  problem,  Henry.  Your  whole  life. 
Hiding  your  head  in  Holmes  Hitt's  office  can't  change  that 
fact." 

"I  don't  think  I  know  what  you  mean,"  he  murmured. 

"You're  a  man  with  a  public  name.  There's  a  public 
Henry  Calverly.  He  isn't  so,  but  he's  the  only  you  that  the 
public  knows  or  cares  about." 

"I  don't  care  about  the  public." 

"Oh,  but  you  do!  You've  got  to.  All  your  real  work, 
until  you  die,  has  got  to  be  done  in  the  public  eye.  And 
what  the  public  thinks  of  you,  thinks  you  are,  will  make 
you  or  break  you.  It  will  carry  you  on  to  success,  or  pin 
failure  on  you  at  every  turn,  no  matter  what  you  may  per- 
sonally try  to  do." 

Again  he  was  touched  with  that  involuntary  little  shiver. 
She  couldn't  see  his  eyes.  She  wondered,  with  swift  in- 


254  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

sight,  what  recent  deep  hurt  she  had  probed.  Sure  of  her 
reasoning — firmly,  in  fact,  on  her  own  ground — she  pressed 
on. 

"Let's  look  at  the  hard  fact.  You're  tagged  now,  Henry. 
Your  name  suggests  prisons — and  aliases.  It's  unjust. 
Most  reputations,  one  way  or  the  other,  are  unjust.  Every 
public  man  bears  a  tag.  The  shrewd  men  see  to  it  that 
their  tags  are  pleasing,  popular.  Hence  press  agents !  Poli-i 
ticians  have  them,  and  preachers,  and  bankers,  and  actresses. 
Their  job  is  to  build  up  a  fictitious  personality.  They  find 
out  what  the  public  likes  in  bankers,  preachers,  actresses, 
statesmen,  and  make  their  employers  look  like  that.  Very 
few  newspaper  reputations  but  are  false.  You  surely  know, 
that.  Even  the  great  names — Washington  and  that  inspired 
cherry  tree  yarn.  Of  course,  George  Washington  told  lies. 
From  all  I  can  gather  he  had  violent  moments;  but  the 
cherry  tree  triumphed  and  Gilbert  Stuart  finished  the  job 
with  his  undying  portrait  of  frozen  virtue.  .  .  .  Take 
Gladstone!  The  photographs  of  him  chopping  down  trees 
at  Hawarden.  William  E.  Gladstone  was  anything  but  a 
simple  husbandman.  He  was  an  astute  and  a  properly  un- 
scrupulous politician.  But  he  saw  to  it  that  he  was  tagged 
right  And  the  Gladstone  myth  survives  over  mere  fact." 
For  one  swift  instant  Calverly's  deep  eyes  swung  up  in  a 
sharp  glance ;  then  dropped  again.  She  was  puzzled,  un- 
aware that  Holmes  Hitt  had  within  the  two  hours  laid  the 
foundation  for  her  talk. 

"The  simple  fact  is,  Henry,  you're  tagged  wrong." 
"Work,"  he  said  again— "I'll  work  it  out,  little  by  little." 
"It  won't  do  it.    Reprobates  have  gone  down  in  history 
as  paragons  of  virtue.    Human  angels  have  gone  down  as 
devils.     We've  got  to  change  your  tag.     Big  job."     She 
glanced  about  the  crowded  restaurant.     "I'm  dying  for  a 
smoke.     If  I  tried  it  in  this  place  they'd  throw  us  out,  I 
suppose." 

She  mused  aloud.  "Publicity  is  the  greatest  force  in  the 
world.  The  great  dear  public  doesn't  see  straight  and  it 
never  will.  It's  full  of  notions,  cant.  It's  just  got  to  have, 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  255 

all  the  time,  its  heroes  and  its  monsters.  People,  of  course, 
are  neither." 

He  turned  toward  the  music ;  moodily  watched  the  vio- 
linist ;  said  something  about  the  cheapness  of  these  popular 
songs. 

She  went  on  studying  him.  Clearly  he  didn't  see  it.  It 
seemed  tragic.  They'd  simply  pound  him  to  death ;  there'd 
be  no  let-up,  no  mercy.  The  public  was  merciless,  casually 

but  persistently  cruel.  They  smashed  one  so 

Her  eyes  dwelt  on  the  hair  that  straggled  down  over  his 
forehead.  It  was  a  good  forehead.  And  the  texture  of  his 
skin  was  finer  than  was  common  with  men.  Her  pulse 
quickened.  She  found  him  more  than  ever  fascinating. 
.  .  .  The  change  of  name  had  been  the  worst  blunder 
of  all.  Though  when  you  come  to  think  of  all  he  must 
have  been  going  through,  what  could  he  do?  He  must  have 
been  beside  himself.  He  could  have  had  it  changed  legally. 
But  what  good  would  that  have  done?  Just  that  much 
more  publicity,  likely. 

"That's  what  you're  up  against,  Henry.  Yours  is  a  pub- 
licity problem.  Nothing  else.  I  don't  know  whether  I  can 
make  you  see  it.  If  I  can't — " 

He  shrugged  this  off ;  peered  out  from  under  his  hand  at 
the  musicians. 

"When  do  you  get  the  money,  Henry?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"One  or  two  years,  I  suppose.  These  things  take  time. 
Has  the  will  been  probated?" 

No  answer. 

"You  do  get  it,  don't  you,  Henry  ?" 

"Oh,  please !"    It  was  hardly  more  than  a  sigh. 

"You're  awfully  difficult.  More  than  anybody  else  in  the 
world  you  need  a  publicity  man  right  now.  Time  is  pass- 
ing. We'd  have  to  catch  it  right  at  the  top  of  all  this  row. 
Maybe,  even  then,  we  couldn't  do  it.  It's  a  chance.  And, 
of  course,  if  you  won't  help— against  your  will — I  can't  do 
a  thing.  I  could  if  .  .  ."  She  leaned  across  the  table. 
Her  voice  dropped  a  little  and  softened.  A  warm  glow 


256  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

spread  through  her  body  and  brain.  "Supposing  it's  hope- 
less, Henry,  after  all — supposing  you  just  have  to  clear  out 
again — I  can't  bear  to  think  of  your  going  alone.  We  might 
work  it  out  together.  You  need  a  woman  awfully,  to  take 
care  of  you.  And  to  work  through  you.  I'd  take  a  chance 
with  you,  Henry.  My  life  isn't  so  much.  I'd  pack  up  and 
go — oh,  anywhere!  Africa,  South  America,  China!  It 
doesn't  much  matter  where.  It  would  be  one  more  experi- 
ence. There'd  be  a  thrill  in  it.  Perhaps  that's  what  you 
need.  I  find  .  .  .  the  way  I  feel  about  the  little  time 
you  were  at  my  place  .  .  .  I'm  fussy;  some  men  I'd 
loathe,  just  seeing  them  around — you  know,  coats  off — • 
shaving —  Oh,  I  know  all  about  it !  I'm  not  a  green  little 
thing.  I've  been  married.  But  I'm  young  enough.  And  I 
wouldn't  set  up  claims  on  you — smother  you — make  exac- 
tions —  strike  a  hard  bargain  —  like  these  innocent  little 
marrying  things." 

There  was  a  long  tense  silence.  Finally  he  looked  up  at 
her,  seemed  in  a  hesitating  way  about  to  speak. 

"I've  got  to  get  back,"  he  said.  "Up  to  the  office.  It's 
my  first  day  there,  you  see."  And  he  faintly,  almost  apolo- 
getically, smiled. 

The  warm  color  faded  from  her  face.  She  had  again  let 
herself  go  too  far;  her  usually  quick  mind  couldn't  make 
this  turn  in  time.  She  couldn't  speak  at  all ;  walked  out  with 
him  in  silence. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  don't  appreciate  all  you've 
said,"  was  his  stiffly  inadequate  remark. 

From  this  sort  of  thing  she  could  only  turn  away,  tell- 
ing herself  bitterly  that  she  was  a  fool. 

And  he  went  back  to  the  City  Trust  Building  to  carry  on 
his  dogged,  grotesquely  heroic  little  struggle  with  what 
seemed  to  him,  for  the  moment,  reality. 

Holmes  Hitt,  it  appeared,  had  shut  himself  in  at  precisely 
two.  Calverly  recalled  dimly  that  he  had  spoken,  a  full 
day  earlier,  of  doing  that.  The  man  seemed  to  him  quite 
wonderful.  He  couldn't  himself  imagine  knowing,  a  day 
in  advance,  that  he  could  shut  off  all  departments  but  one 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  257 

of  an  active  brain  and  coolly  call  on  that  one  department  to 
function.  He  felt  now  the  admiration  and  a  touch  of  the 
envy  that  the  emotional  man  must  feel  at  times  for  the  suc- 
cessfully methodical  man. 

He  wandered  out  of  the  office  and  took  the  elevator 
down.  He  was  disturbed,  and  curiously  stimulated.  He 
walked  across  town  and  out  to  his  own  room;  shut  him- 
self in  there.  The  quick  plausible  mind  of  Holmes  Hitt 
seemed  almost  to  have  substituted  itself  for  his  own. 
Margie  had  added  emphasis  to  this  pervading,  compelling 
force  of  the  man,  without  successfully  intruding  herself. 
If  anything,  she  had  driven  Calverly's  thoughts  precipitately 
back  to  him.  She  had  intensified  his  rather  blind,  certainly 
desperate  determination  to  lay  hold  of  every-day  life.  By 
reviving  that  emotional  tension  between  them  she  had 
driven  him  off,  sharpened  his  will,  brought  his  best,  his 
emotional,  faculties  into  play.  .  .  .  He  had  none  of  the 
Perfect  Porcelain,  data  there  in  his  room;  but  that  was 
what  he  went  at.  He  drew  rough  sketches  of  the  perfect 
bathroom;  even  of  the  typical  suburban  home  it  was  to 
make  better.  He  wrote  phrases,  prose  descriptions,  verse. 
Ideas  came;  he  played  with  them.  .  .  .  He  worked 
there  until  night,  and  on  nearly  till  morning,  pausing  only 
to  rush  out  and  buy  some  magazines  and  a  cup  of  coffee.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  couldn't  go  into  the  boarding-house 
dining-room;  not  as  he  felt  now.  Something  near  the  old 
creative  pressure  was  on  him.  He  poured  over  the  adver- 
tising pages  of  the  magazines;  tried  imitating  their  effec- 
tive points,  then  altering  them,  twisting  them  around ;  then 
hit  on  the  idea  of  designing  an  advertisement  that  would 
compete  effectually  with  the  hundreds  of  others  in  a  par- 
ticular magazine.  He  began  to  see  the  possibilities  of  type, 
white  spaces,  contrasting  thicknesses  and  qualities  of  paper, 
colored  inks,  drawings  and  designs.  Little  by  little  the 
vulgarity  of  his  subject  and  of  advertising  in  general  faded 
out ;  he  saw,  felt,  the  business  enterprise  that  lay  back  of 
each  commodity,  the  drive,  strain,  power  in  competition 
that  was  represented  on  these  pages.  He  even  felt  drama 


258  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

in  it.  ...  After  all,  wasn't  it  life?  Wasn't  it  ambition, 
energy,  the  struggle  for  preeminence?  Wasn't  it,  at  bot- 
tom, the  old,  old  human  drama,  worked  out  in  the  terms  of 
the  moment?  .  .  .  He  even  began  to  sense  romance 
in  it. 

The  next  morning — it  was  near  noon — he  appeared,  dis- 
heveled, hollow-eyed,  but  in  a  curious  way  nearly  happy,  at 
the  office. 

Holmes  Hitt  exhibited  no  surprise  over  his  disappearance 
the  day  before;  merely  studied  him  with  calm,  slightly 
amused  eyes ;  then  looked  through  the  little  heap  of  papers 
that  Calverly  placed  before  him.  These  held  his  interest. 
Once  or  twice  he  even  nodded  approvingly. 

"This,"  he  said,  tapping  them,  "is  a  start.  We'll  go  out 
to  the  factory  to-day.  I  want  you  to  see  porcelain  made. 
And  I  want  you  to  talk  with  the  workmen.  I  want  you  to 
realize  that  each  of  them  is  a  human  being,  supporting  a 
family,  working  something  out.  Then  you'd  better  chat 
with  the  firm.  They're  big  men.  You'll  feel  humble.  All 
through  it  you'll  find  beauty.  And  after  that — say  to- 
morrow evening — we'll  sit  down,  you  and  I,  and  talk  over 
the  campaign  that  our  copy  is  just  a  detail  in.  I  want  you 
to  get  a  little  notion  of  the  problems  of  distribution.  You'll 
find  it  big,  stirring  stuff." 

And  so  Henry  Calverly  was  swept  off  his  feet  and  into  a 
current  in  which  he  had  to  exert  every  faculty  to  the  utmost 
in  order  merely  to  keep  afloat. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-NINE 

On  the  Topic  of  Killing  Writers 

DURING  the  earlier  part  of  his  talk  with  Margie  she 
had  spoken,  casually,  of  the  older  Mr.  Hitt.     At  the 
time  he  had  seemed  hardly  to  hear.     Later,  as  was  often 
the  case  in  Henry's  odd  brain,  it  came  up. 

There  was  a  new  managing  editor  on  the  News,  it 
appeared.  He  had  discharged  the  old  librarian  without  a 
moment's  warning  as  an  unjustifiable  expense  to  the  paper. 
A  ten-dollar-a-week  filing  clerk  would  do,  he  said. 

This  performance  had  so  upset  Mr.  Listerly — according 
to  Margie — that  he  stayed  away  from  the  office;  put  in  a 
day  or  so  playing  golf.  Until,  added  the  shrewd  Margie, 
Hittie  could  get  his  things  away  and  not  be  hanging  un- 
comfortably around.  Then  Calverly's  fresh  trouble  had 
solved  the  little  personal  problem  for  him;  he  transferred 
the  biography  job  from  the  younger  man  to  the  elder. 

"But  it  was  the  City  Trust  Company  that  wrote  me," 
Henry  explained. 

"Of  course,  my  dear!  It  was  with  Hannibal  Simmons,  of 
the  City  Trust,  that  he  was  playing  golf.  Mr.  Listerly  never 
discharged  anybody  in  his  life.  He  lets  other  people  do  the 
disagreeable  things." 

"He  came  to  me,  Mr.  Hitt  did,"  said  Henry.  "He  wanted 
to  be  sure  I  was  really  out." 

"He's  a  dear!"  said  Margie. 

All  this  came  strongly  to  mind  one  evening  when  Henry 
met  Mr.  Hitt  and,  warmed  by  the  mere  sight  of  the 
quietly  friendly  face  and  the  kindly  eyes  behind  the  glasses, 
walked  with  him  along  the  street.  They  dropped  into  a 
Buffalo  Lunch  Room  together.  After  this  they  sat  in  Can- 
tey  Square  and  talked.  At  eight  they  drifted  around  to  a 
theater,  climbing  to  inexpensive  seats;  and  talked  until 
iearly  morning  over  mugs  of  beer. 

259 


260  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

It  was  a  moving  experience  to  Calverly.  It  was  so  long 
since  he  had  known  a  man  friend  that  until  this  evening  he 
had  forgotten  how  to  be  really  aware  of  the  want.  Hum- 
phrey Weaver,  he  always  knew,  would  do  anything  for 
him,  any  imaginable  kind  act.  But  the  old  friendship  had 
painfully  changed.  Humphrey  had  gone  on  up,  to  that 
plane  of  success  where  dwelt  Holmes  Hitt,  and  Mr.  Lis- 
terly,  and  the  reticent,  golf-playing  men  he  could  see  at  the 
mahogany  desks  in  the  City  Trust  rooms  whenever  he  passed 
in  and  out  of  the  building.  He  and  Humphrey  could  feel 
toward  each  other  to  the  point  of  a  delicate  tenderness,  but 
they  couldn't  talk.  There  is  a  freemasonry  for  each  human 
plane,  and  a  mintage  of  thought,  feeling  and  speech  for 
each.  Old  Mr.  Hitt,  now,  knew  poverty,  disillusionment, 
patient  routine.  And  a  contributing  fact  was  the  genuine 
respect  and  affection  he  felt  for  those  old  stories  of  Henry's. 

By  the  end  of  the  evening  they  were  friends.  There  was 
a  thrill  in  the  experience.  They  talked  eagerly,  hotly.  And 
finally  Henry  told  of  his  love  for  Miriam. 

Mr.  Hitt  had  a  young  heart.    He  listened  like  a  boy. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  you  oughtn't  to  write  her,"  he  observed. 

"No."  Henry  shook  his  head.  "I've  thought  and  thought 
— until  my  head  split.  I  can't!  There  was  just  that  one 
awful  mistake  between  us.  I  thought  she'd  know  the  whole 
story  the  minute  I  told  her  my  name.  God,  it's  seemed  as  if 
the  whole  world  knew  it !" 

"I  know !"  breathed  Mr.  Hitt. 

"I  see  now  that  she  didn't.  If  she  had— don't  you  see? 
.  .  .  "  He  spread  his  hands. 

Mr.  Hitt  turned  this  over  in  his  mind. 

"It  would  have  had  to  make  a  difference.  Don't  you 
see?  I've  been  pretty  naive  about  it,  I'm  afraid.  It's  been 
hard  to  see  it  with  other  people's  eyes." 

"Of  course.    We  can't  any  of  us  do  that." 

"It  wasn't  until  I  got  my  head  a  little  clear,  and  just  sat 
down  and  put  my  story  together,  that  I  began  to  get  it 
straight.  There  we  were — she  rich,  I  poor ;  she  a  sheltered 
invalid,  I  an  outcast  .  .  ." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  261 

Mr.  Hitt  smiled  gently  at  the  rhetorical  touch.  Henry 
pressed  on : — 

"She's  really  pretty  defenseless  in  the  hands  of  all  those 
people  about  her.  She's  had  no  business  experience,  no 
worldly  life  at  all.  The  whole  story  broke  on  her  at  once. 
She  thought  my  change  of  name  was  just  to  escape  unpleas- 
ant notoriety.  She  didn't  dream  that  I'd  been  a  convict." 

Mr.  Hitt  winced  at  the  word. 

"It's  true.  It's  the  word.  She — she  loved  me,  you  see 
.  .  .  His  voice  broke  a  little  here. 

"Then  she  still  loves  you." 

"That  would  make  it  harder.  I  almost  hope  she  doesn't. 
.  .  .  No,  I  can't  say  that!" 

"Of  course  you  can't." 

"But  here's  what  it  conies  down  to."  .  .  .  Henry 
leaned  earnestly  over  the  table;  spoke  with  sudden  clear 
conviction.  .  .  .  "A  woman  who  has  given  her  heart  to 
a  man  has  a  right  to  be  proud  of  him.  Hasn't  she  ?" 

Mr.  Hitt  thought  a  long  time.  "Yes,"  he  finally  had  to 
admit,  "she  has  that  right." 

"Well  .  .  . !"  Again  Henry  spread  his  hands.  "That 
puts  it  straight  up  to  me.  You  see !  I've  got  to  make  good ! 
I've  got  to  build  a  new  name  for  Henry  Calverly !  I've  got 
to!  As  soon  as  possible.  Every  day  that  the  thing  rests 
this  way  makes  it  just  that  much  harder  for  her.  When 
they  say  to  her — as  they  will — 'The  man  you  love  is  nothing 
but  that,  and  that!' — she  must  be  able  to  reply  with — 'Yes, 
but  he  is  also  this!'  You  see?  .  .  .  And  I  can't  so 
much  as  write  her  a  note  until  I've  worked  it  out,  somehow. 
Better  this  slow  pain  than  stirring  it  up,  torturing  her." 

Mr.  Hitt  slowly  nodded.  A  touch  of  moisture  came  to  his 
patient  eyes.  The  thought  of  this  ardent  boy — he  seemed 
that — building  the  new  name  in  that  corner  room  of  Holmes 
Hitt,  Inc.,  the  thought  of  "Hitt  Panatelas"  and  "Per- 
fect Porcelain" — all  this  was  curiously  touching.  The 
boy's  problem  was  so  much  bigger,  clearly,  than  he  was 
able  to  see.  "It's  really  a  publicity  problem,  on  a  large 
scale,"  thought  Mr.  Hitt,  unaware  that  he  was  substantially 


262  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

quoting  a  certain  brisk  young  woman  of  his  acquaintance. 
Knowing  Satraps  of  the  Simple — almost  word  for  word ; 
he  had  often  read  one  or  another  of  the  stories  at  gatherings 
of  friends — he  had  an  illuminating  cross  light  on  the  curi- 
ously ingenious  young  man  before  him,  who  didn't  seem 
able  to  perceive  that  his  life  was  a  wreck,  and  who  was, 
after  all,  so  appealingly  young.  His  youth  appeared  to  be, 
at  the  moment,  his  only  hope.  Yet  he  might  work  through, 
in  some  unexpected  way.  Life  was  such  a  dramatic  hodge- 
podge of  downs  and  ups ;  you  could  never  be  sure.  .  .  . 
And  Mr.  Hitt  felt  sorry,  too,  for  Miriam  Cantey.  He  had 
seen  her;  he  had  a  memory  of  a  delicate  girl  with  unex- 
pectedly vivid  coloring  of  hair  and  eyes,  Jim  Cantey's 
coloring. 

There  was  another  chance  for  the  boy,  of  course.  He 
spoke  of  it. 

"I  notice  that  you  leave  the  money  out  of  account,  in 
all  this  talk.  It  will  help,  you  know." 

Calverly  looked  at  him,  directly,  with  a  touch  of  surprise, 
and  more  than  a  touch  of  dignity. 

"I  shall  never  touch  that,"  he  said,  simply. 

It  came  down,  in  Mr.  Hitt's  mind,  to  the  question,  What, 
what  on  earth,  were  you  to  do  with  him !  Beyond  standing 
by! 

On  another  evening  they  took  a  trolley  ride  to  an  amuse- 
ment park,  up  the  river.  Here,  stretched  comfortably  out 
on  a  grassy  bank,  looking  idly  out  at  the  boating  parties, 
they  fell  to  talking  of  the  Cantey  biography.  Henry  asked 
his  friend,  hesitatingly,  even  shyly,  how  he  meant  to  handle 
it. 

"I  don't  know.  Conventionally,  I  suppose.  I'm  plugging 
through  Amme's  assortment  of  papers.  It's  an  excellent 
picture  of  Amme's  mind — the  whole  selection.  And  the 
way  they're  classified.  I  can  see  just  the  book  he  wants. 
It'll  look  like  all  the  standard  biographies.  It'll  please  the 
family.  And  it  will  be  worthless." 

Henry  glanced  up  quickly,  warmly.  Little  had  passed 
between  them  on  this  topic,  so  important  to  each.  From 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  263 

moment  to  moment  he  was  discovering  new  points  of  mental 
and  spiritual  contact  with  this  singularly  youthful  old  man. 
For  to  twenty-six,  fifty-eight  is  indeed  age ! 

"It  won't  please  all  the  family,"  he  said,  an  almost  de- 
votional softness  in  his  voice.  "Not  Miriam." 

*'Oh,  it  will,  my  boy!  It'll  have  to.  Jim  Cantey  was 
rugged,  sometimes  rough,  what  we  mean  when  we  use  the 
term  'big.'  He'd  have  wanted  nothing  but  the  truth,  I  think, 
himself." 

"She  knows  that.  And  she  knows  a  good  deal  of  the 
truth.  He  left  it  with  her." 

"No!  That's  interesting!  Not  unlike  him,  though.  It 
was  an  unusual  friendship,  that ;  father  and  daughter.  They 
traveled  together  a  lot.  Mr.  Listerly  used  to  talk  about  it. 
I've  heard  that  he  told  her  even  his  business  problems." 

"I  know.  He  did.  And  he  was  determined  to  have  an 
honest  biography.  He  meant,  up  to  the  very  last,  to  write 
his  own." 

"It  wouldn't  have  turned  out  to  be  what  he  wanted,  of 
course.  He  wasn't  a  writing  man.  And — no,  it  can't  be 
written."  Mr.  Hitt  slowly  shook  his  head.  "The  difficulty 
i — it's  fundamental — people  just  naturally  won't  have  it. 
Our  racial  attitude  toward  morals  and  life  is  a  good  deal  like 
the  Japanese  feeling  for  art  and  the  Chinese  feeling  for 
literature.  It  has  settled  down  to  a  pattern.  The  man 
whose  life  doesn't  appear  to  run  true  to  the  pattern  is  at 
once  dismissed  as  abnormal,  or  'bad,'  or  something  like  that. 
The  pattern  is,  of  course,  quite  largely  false.  Almost  wholly 
false.  Human  life  doesn't  run  that  way.  It  must  be  why 
every  life  being  lived  about  us  is  in  some  degree  a  pretense. 
So  long  as  the  great  rank  and  file  feel  that  way,  what  are 
you  going  to  do  about  it?  If  I  were  to  picture  Jim  Cantey 
as  I've  seen  him,  a  fine,  big,  forthright  man — with  blood  in 
him — fighting  like  a  pirate,  sometimes — driving  great  deals 
through  ruthlessly — leaving  wrecks  here  and  there  as  he 
plunged  on — but  big,  always  big! — you  know  well  enough 
what  they'd  say:  either  that  Jim  Cantey  was  a  bad  lot  or 
that  I  was." 


264  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"This  sounds  a  little,"  remarked  Calverly  dryly,  "like 
talk  I've  heard  lately  about  'publicity.' " 

"I'm  not  sure  that  any  biography  mightn't  be  properly 
catalogued  as  just  that." 

"Apparently  you  first  find  out  what  the  public  wants  to 
think  about  the  subject  of  your  biography,  and  then  manu- 
facture that  sort  of  person  for  them,  using  what  real  data 
you  can,  calmly  leaving  out  what  you  can't." 

"Yes,  it's  that.  Oh,  I'd  love  to  do  the  other!  There's 
never  been  such  romantic  stuff  as  this  business  development 
of  America.  The  stakes  were  so  big.  It  was  so  lawless. 
Certainly  Jim  Cantey  was  lawless !  Such  a  big  swing  to  it. 
I've  always  loved  to  ride  through  Pittsburgh  at  night,  so  I 
could  raise  the  window  curtain  a  little,  and  lie  in  my  berth 
and  look  out  at  the  miles  of  red  fire  from  the  blast  fur- 
naces. It's  thrilling.  Especially  when  you  know  a  little 
of  the  great  business  kings  and  freebooters  and  labor  leaders 
that  stand  back  of  it,  and  what  they're  fighting  for.  Pitts- 
burgh alone  is  a  greater  epic  than  all  of  Homer.  .  .  . 
Take  the  fight  of  the  railroad  kings  for  the  empires  of  our 
own  West — wonderful!" 

"Jim  Cantey  saw  all  that,"  mused  Henry. 

"He  would  have.    Yes,  he  did." 

"And  you  see  it.     Why  not  write  some  of  it,  at  least?" 

Mr.  Hitt  pursed  his  lips,  and  looked  a  long  time  at  the 
river. 

"No,"  he  finally  said — "no.  Certainly  not  in  the  biogra- 
phy. It's  not  my  book,  to  do  as  I  like  with.  You  couldn't 
make  it  fit  the  pattern.  Never  in  the  world.  It's  too 
rough — glorious,  but  rough,  barbaric.  Blood  and  sweat  and 
bitterness  in  it." 

Henry  said,  after  a  little,  humbly,  "I  don't  seem  able  to 
see  this  pattern.  That's  why  nobody  wants  my  work,  I 
suppose." 

Mr.  Hitt  sighed.  "And  I  can  see  it,"  he  said.  "That's 
why  they  want  mine." 

I^ater,  walking  across  town.  Mr.  Hitt  stopped  before  the 
wide  plate-glass  windows  of  the  post-office. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  265 

"There  was  a  fellow  named  Harkwright,"  he  said,  "who 
put  through  the  Peck  Avenue  trolley,  back  in  1893.  A  year 
or  two  later  Jim  Cantey — he  was  forming  County  Railways 
then — got  the  control  away  from  him.  Beat  him  in  the  stock 
market.  Harkwright  took  to  drinking,  went  from  bad  to 
worse,  and  let  the  thing  prey  on  him  so  that  he  went  around 
threatening  to  shoot  Mr.  Cantey  on  sight.  They  met  in 
there,  by  that  first  marble  column.  Jim  Cantey  walked 
straight  up  to  him,  took  him  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  and 
the  seat  of  his  trousers,  and  pitched  him  out  here — through 
the  glass.  He  landed  about  where  we're  standing.  That 
was  all  from  Mr.  Harkwright.  It  was  a  touch  of  the  real 
Jim  Cantey." 

They  sat  then,  for  an  hour,  on  a  bench  in  Cantey  Square. 
The  great  dark  office  buildings  loomed  high  into  the  night 
about  them.  In  the  City  Trust  Building,  a  huge,  gray- 
white  faqade,  a  few  lights  twinkled.  An  occasional  late 
street-car  rumbled  by,  each  with  its  dimly  decipherable  let- 
tering, "County  Railways."  Two  policemen  stood  chatting 
under  the  street  light,  at  the  corner.  On  other  benches,  here 
in  the  park,  human  derelicts  sprawled  and  slumbered  un- 
easily. 

Calverly  was  looking  about  at  these. 

"I'm  always  sorry  for  them,"  he  explained,  in  a  hushed 
voice.  "I've  slept  on  park  benches  many  a  night."  And 
added,  "In  winter,  too." 

Mr.  Hitt  was  silent.  He  had  met  Holmes  Hitt  at  noon, 
and  they  had  discussed  Henry  Calverly.  He  was  working, 
it  seemed,  like  mad.  Too  earnestly.  Almost  too  humbly. 
Holmes  said,  "I  must  have  talked  to  him  harder  than  I 
meant.  He's  taken  it  like  a  child.  And  his  nerves  are  all 
strung  up.  I  don't  believe  he's  got  any  safety  valve.  But 
if  he  doesn't  burst,  he'll  write  great  copy.  I  was  right 
about  him.  If  I  get  time,  later,  I'll  take  him  East  for  a 
week.  Atlantic  City,  and  around.  Slacken  him  up  a  bit." 

Calverly  was  speaking  now,  dreamily,  gazing  up  at  the 
higher  lights  in  the  great  front  of  the  City  Trust  Building. 

"I've  been  thinking  over  what  you  said,  up  the  river — 


266  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

about  Pittsburgh  being  an  epic.  It's  rather  wonderful  that 
you  and  I  should  see  things  so  much  alike.  I  feel  that. 
If  you  and  Jim  Cantey  and  I  could  have  sat  down  together 
we  might  have  composed  an  epic.  If  we  were  big  enough. 
Jim  Cantey  knew  the  facts.  It's  a  job  for  a  Dumas  and  a 
Balzac  rolled  into  one — that  big  push  westward,  the  rail- 
roads, the  mines,  the  grazing,  oil,  the  development  of  manu- 
facturing, the  trusts,  the  big  pirates — and  politics,  of  course. 
It's  been  bigger  drama,  I  think,  than  the  days  of  the  French 
kings.  It's  amusing — I  find  myself  thinking  of  Jim  Cantey 
as  a  sort  of  modern  Charles  the  Bold." 

"They  were  not  unlike,"  said  Mr.  Hitt.  He  stole  a  glance 
at  the  young  dreamer  beside  him.  Calvery's  voice,  quiet 
enough  at  first,  had  taken  on  timbre  and  color  as  he  talked. 
It  was  a  musical  voice. 

Two  automobiles  stood  before  the  City  Trust,  a  taxicab 
and  a  limousine. 

Two  men  came  out  of  the  building,  one,  a  little  unsteady 
of  foot,  the  other,  tall  and  slender,  carrying  a  suit-case  and 
a  golf  bag.  The  taxi  was  paid  off  and  spun  away. 

The  two  stood  by  the  limousine.  There  was  a  brief  argu- 
ment. Then  they  got  into  the  car  and  were  driven  rapidly 
off. 

"Hum !"  mused  Mr.  Hitt,  aloud.    "That's  curious !" 

"I  didn't  notice  who  they  were." 

"Mayor  Tim  and  Oswald  Quakers.    Together!" 

"It's  not  the  first  time." 

"One  doesn't  think  of  them  as  having  anything  in  com- 
mon." 

"Why  not?" 

"Well,  Quakers  is  a  gentleman  and  has  been  chairman  of 
the  Republican  State  Committee.  Tim  isn't  a  gentleman  and 
is  boss  of  the  Democratic  Machine  here." 

"I  don't  think  party  lines  mean  anything  to  Quakers. 
He's  interested  in  power.  Anyway,  he's  bossing  the  mayor 
just  now." 

Mr.  Hitt  was  frankly  surprised.  "I  didn't  know  you 
knew  Quakers,"  he  said. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  267, 

Henry  hesitated.  "I  do,  a  little.  He's  a  shrewd  man, 
I  think." 

"Very,  very  shrewd." 

They  fell  silent. 

"Money!"  Henry  exclaimed  softly.  "There's  the  heart 
of  the  modern  epic.  Oh,  why  doesn't  somebody  write  it! 
It's  what  they're  all  fighting  for.  It's  power.  Gold  in  the 
ground !  Digging  it  out !  The  modern  West  began  in  forty- 
nine.  And  the  Klondike.  .  .  ."  his  voice  dropped 
.  .  .  "I  was  there.  And  steel,  and  copper,  and  wheat, 
and  oil!  .  .  .  Why  write  about  little  individual  sor- 
rows or  joys  except  as  they  reflect  the  big  drama  we're 
all  actors  in,  dragged  along  in !" 

Mr.  Hitt  pointed  at  a  belated  pushcart,  over  at  the  corner, 
laden  with  fruit.  "There's  a  touch  of  world-drama,"  he 
said  quietly.  "We  build  ships  and  send  them  into  the  Car- 
ibbean, and  push  in  commercial  agents  and  little  railroads, 
and  back  it  up  with  gunboats  and  stage  a  revolution  in 
some  little  Central  American  republic,  and  men  are  killed 
— for  what?  To  sell  us  those  bananas  at  a  cent  or  two 
apiece  ?" 

"I  know.  Other  men  are  building  new  railways  up  here, 
and  throwing  out  great  fleets  across  the  seas.  Others  are 
cornering  the  steel  and  coal  they've  got  to  use.  And  they 
fight  as  the  old  warrior-kings  fought,  but  in  the  stock  mar- 
ket and  the  wheat  pit." 

Calverly  leaned  forward.  There  was  a  glow  in  his  face 
that  Mr.  Hitt  could  feel  rather  than  see.  Though  when  the 
fine  young  head  turned  he  could  see  the  eyes.  He  felt,  now 
that  the  boy  was  unquestionably  rousing,  talking  out,  a  touch 
of  something  like  awe.  It  was  thrilling  to  hear,  now  and 
then,  a  phrase  from  his  lips  that  recalled  the  one  great 
book.  There  had  been  magic  in  Henry  Calverly.  There 
seemed  to  be  magic  in  him  now.  Perhaps  they  hadn't 
crushed  him  yet. 

"There's  our  modern  Macbeth,  our  Hamlet,  our  Henry 
Fifth,  our  Scot,  Dumas  and  Balzac — right  around  us  in  the 
business  world.  It's  a  terrific  struggle  for  existence,  sue- 


268  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

cess,  power.  Men  break  and  die.  Women  weave  into  it. 
There  are  spies  and  treason.  Lawyers  in  corners,  spinning 
their  webs.  Judges  bought  and  Mjld,  or  going  down  to 
honest  oblivion.  The  few  big  men  that  fight  their  way  to 
the  top,  and  have  to  go  on  fighting  until  they  drop.  It's 
the  world-drama,  in  a  new  setting,  played  at  a  new  pace — • 
drama  with  music ;  and  the  orchestra  is  steam  hammers,  and 
pneumatic  riveters,  and  the  hiss  of  steam,  and  the  screech 
of  locomotives,  and — and  Pittsburgh!  It's  energy — it's 
life  itself.  And  all  through  it  runs  the  glitter  of  gold." 

He  stopped,  and  for  a  liule  while  seemed  to  be  thinking. 

"And  against  this  terrific  background,"  he  suddenly  cried 
out,  "you  see  young  girls  with  nice  manners  and  pretty 
clothes  and  a  queer  little  faith  that  life's  all  comfortably 
settled ;  and  young  men  sent  to  sleepy  old  colleges  where 
they  browse  around  the  edges  of  old  dead  things  and  learn 
to  despise  life  wherever  it  presents  itself." 

"The  pattern,"  murmured  Mr.  Hitt. 

"Yes,  the  pattern!  And  they  read  pretty  little  stories 
about  why  she  married  him,  or  why  he  married  her  .  .  . 
with  this  tremendous  drama  swirling  around  their  very 
heads.  And  if  a  bit  of  it  breaks  through  their  foolish 
little  crusts — if  a  comfortably  rich  father  shoots  himself, 
or  a  girl  gets  whirled  away  into  the  great  rough,  real  game, 
or  there's  a  big  strike  with  fighting,  bloodshed,  they 
think  it  an  unfortunate  exception.  .  .  .  Why  doesn't 
the  game  itself  get  into  books?  Why  always  the  juve- 
nile pattern?  If  somebody'd  only  write  it — the  real  stuff!" 

"Now  and  then  it  does  get  into  the  books,"  said  Mr.  Hitt. 
"But  the  crowd  never  read  that  kind.  Balzac  got  some  of 
it  in,  and  Hugo,  and  Dostoyevsky." 

Mr.  Hitt  forgot  that  night  that  he  was  tired.  He  walked 
up  the  Hill  to  Henry's  boarding-house. 

"My  boy,"  he  said,  almost  tenderly,  gripping  his  hand, 
"I  can't  write  the  real  stuff.  I  know  that  now.  Margie 
Daw — you'd  hardly  know  her — Margie  says  I'm  too  old. 
She's  right.  I'm  going  to  do  my  nice  little  pattern  biogra- 
phy. A  book  that  Esther  Appleby  and  Amme  and  Harvey 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  269 

O'Rell  will  think  really  good.  They  may  even  call  it 
'literary.'  You  and  I  will  know  better,  but  .  .  .  Well, 
never  mind  that.  I'm  thinking  about  you.  You've  had  a 
terrible  time.  There's  trouble,  perhaps  endless  struggling, 
ahead  of  you.  But  a  fact  stands  out — your  youth.  And  I 
know  now  that  you're  going  to  do  the  real  work.  I  know 
it!" 

Calverly  moodily  shook  his  head.  "I'm  going  to  put 
Perfect  Porcelain  into  six  thousand  American  homes,"  he 
said.  "I've  got  to.  It's  the  one  thing  between  me  and 

V 

"My  boy" — the  older  man  smiled  out  through  his  spec- 
tacles— "let  me  tell  you  one  thing.  The  only  way  they 
can  kill  a  writer  is  to  cut  off  his  head.  So  long  as  there's 
paper  and  pencil  in  the  world,  or  birch  bark  and  charcoal, 
or  ink,  or  blood,  they  can't  kill  a  writer.  Never  let  yourself 
forget  that  fact." 

Calverly  again  shook  his  head;  said  good  night  with  a 
wry  smile.  But  within  his  breast  was  a  warm  glow.  For 
one  thing,  he  had,  at  last,  a  friend ! 


CHAPTER  THIRTY 
What  Qualters  Said  to   the  Mayor 

IN  ANY  busy  community  the  rise  to  power  of  a  particular 
man  is  an  interesting  phenomenon.  The  power  itself  is 
often  as  not  unconnected  with  office  of  any  sort.  It  vests 
less  in  the  titular  head  of  the  dominant  political  party  or 
the  president  of  the  strongest  bank  than  in  the  man  to 
whom  these  leaders  turn  when  in  a  quandary.  But  it  is, 
I  think,  always  directly  connected  with  great  concentrations 
of  money. 

Oswald  Qualters  had  been  a  quiet  force  in  the  com- 
munity for  a  decade  or  two.  His  easy,  even  light  way  of 
dismissing  little  difficulties,  his  sure  hand  with  graver  prob- 
lems, made  him  early  popular  on  club  directorates.  No  one 
had  ever  seen  him  even  momentarily  nonplussed.  He  never 
talked  lengthily  or  wasted  time,  except  in  pleasure.  And 
back  of  him,  like  a  mighty  tower,  loomed  the  wealth  and 
political  strength  of  Senator  Painter.  He  handled  all  the 
senator's  legal  business  in  the  northern  part  of  the  state,  ad- 
ministered his  properties,  represented  him  on  boards  of 
directors.  In  all  these  business  activities,  as  in  his  personal 
and  club  life,  he  never  hesitated  to  accept  responsibility,  was 
never  ruffled,  or  tired,  or  ill-humored ;  talked  golf,  or  tarpon 
fishing,  or  pictures,  at  times  when  other  men  were  staggering 
under  threats  of  panic  or  nervously  evading  the  attacks  of 
eager  young  reformers. 

Gradually  a  knowledge  of  his  easy  skill  spread  among  the 
solider  business  men.  It  was  known  that  he  had  handled 
this  matter,  or  that,  conspicuously  well.  It  became  known, 
too,  far  beyond  the  city,  among  shrewdly  managed  inter- 
state financial  groups,  that  in  local  matters  it  was  well  to 
"see"  Qualters.  And  the  occasional  evidences  of  this  out- 
side influence  were  not  overlooked  in  the  neighborhood  of 

270 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  271 

Cantey  Square.  He  became  a  factor  on  the  board  of  the 
Cantey  National  Bank  as  well  as  of  City  Trust,  which 
latter  was  more  frankly  in  the  way  of  being  a  Painter 
property.  Observant  eyes  had  lately  noted  that  Bob  Lis- 
terly  turned  to  him,  on  occasions,  that  even  the  gruff, 
driving  Harvey  O'Rell  was  consulting  him.  Cantey  Estate 
still  seemed  to  dominate  the  city,  financially  and  politically; 
still,  the  Cantey  tradition  was  wearing  a  little  threadbare. 
Among  the  trustees  there  was  no  clear  unity  of  political 
purpose.  Amme  was  an  academic  little  man,  shining  by  a 
reflected  light,  with  no  real  grasp  on  the  rough  facts  of 
life.  Listerly  had  no  vigor;  merely  ability.  He  made  it  a 
rule  to  play  safe  with  the  News,  quietly  selecting  editorial 
writers  who  would  discourse  on  sports  or  the  weather  or 
the  need  of  hurrying  the  construction  of  the  public  baths 
•when  any  real  political  or  financial  crisis  impended.  O'Rell 
was  the  only  strong  man  in  the  group,  and  he  had  grown 
quiet  and  cautious  of  late.  Among  them  the  Cantey  inter- 
ests simply  drifted. 

In  Quakers'  own  mind  the  outstanding  difficulty  had  been 
Amme.  The  interesting  little  scene  in  his  own  study  when 
a  drunken  mayor  broke  in  on  the  talk  with  young  Calverly 
had  given  him  his  first  real  hold.  Amme  had  distinctly 
failed  to  rise  to  the  situation.  He  had  been  shocked  and 
confused. 

The  recollection  of  the  scene  more  than  once  brought  a 
momentary  smile  to  Quakers.  Amme  had  been  so  naive. 
He  really  hadn't  seemed  to  know  that  beneath  the  surface  of 
club  and  political  and  business  life  a  certain  amount  of  rough 
•work  had  to  go  on ;  that  the  most  resplendent  king  couldn't 
long  hold  his  power  without  a  concealed  army  of  spies 
and  plotters  and  even  assassins  undermining  his  foes.  A 
result  of  the  incident  was  that  Amme  forever  lost  faith  in 
O'Rell.  The  man  who  had  for  years  stood  in  his  mind 
for  strong,  dignified  business  vigor  was  now  revealed  with 
feet  in  the  mire.  It  was  disquieting.  It  was  unsettling.  He 
had  talked  pretty  freely  with  O'Rell  always.  He  had  to  go 
on,  now,  appearing  to  talk  freely  with  him;  they  had  too 


272  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

many  common  interests  to  permit  of  a  crude  break;  but 
his  tongue  belied  his  thoughts.  And  you  had  to  lean  a  little, 
now  and  then,  on  somebody. 

Then  disquieting  news  came,  in  the  form  of  a  letter  from 
Will  Appleby.  It  was  really  a  matter  for  the  trustees.  But 
you  couldn't  confide  in  Bob  Listerly.  Bob  would  hardly 
let  you.  And  he  had  lost  Harvey.  For  a  matter  of  hours 
he  struggled  with  the  bold  idea  of  going  it  alone;  getting 
matters  into  his  own  hands  and  coming  gradually  to  dom- 
inate the  other  two ;  in  a  breathless  word,  to  grasp  substan- 
tial control  of  Cantey  Estate. 

But  it  was  too  big  for  him.  He  ended,  shortly  after 
lunch,  over  at  the  Town  Club,  by  leading  Oswald  Quakers 
up  into  a  corner  of  the  deserted  library  and  showing  him  the 
letter. 

It  was  not  altogether  a  satisfactory  interview.  Quakers, 
he  felt,  didn't  take  it  as  seriously  as  it  deserved.  He  asked 
only  a  few  questions.  He  hadn't  much  time ;  said  rather 
abruptly  that  he  was  going  away  for  a  week  or  so. 

His  questions  were  as  follows: 

"The  tru?t  dissolves  pretty  soon,  doesn't  it?" 

"This  fall.     Miriam  will  be  twenty-five  then." 

"And  she  gets  absolute  control?" 

"Yes." 

"She'll  agree  to  a  voluntary  renewal  of  the  trust,  won't 
she?" 

"I'm  afraid  not." 

"At  least  she'll  have  to  leave  things  in  your  hands  ?" 

"I  proposed  something  of  that  sort.  You  see  what 
Appleby  says." 

"Hmm !    She  still  has  those  papers  of  her  father's  ?" 

"She  took  some  of  them  with  her.  The  ones  Calverly 
had.  Will  sees  as  clearly  as  you  or  I  that  it's  unjust  to 
established  business  to  leave  them  in  existence.  But  he 
naturally  feels  a  delicacy  about  taking  them  by  force." 

"Of  course." 

And  that  was  about  all  the  satisfaction  Amme  could  get, 
at  the  moment. 

But  within  an  hour  Quakers  called  Mayor  Maclntyre 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  273 

on  the  telephone  and  ordered  him  to  come  to  his  office,  by 
the  private  stairway,  at  eleven  that  night. 

The  mayor  was  inclined  to  sputter  at  this  treatment,  but 
Quakers  cut  him  off. 

When  he  came,  Quakers  put  him  in  an  armchair  and 
looked  him  over,  coldly. 

"Tim,"  he  said,  "you've  taken  your  last  drink." 

"Look  ahere,  Quakers,  I'd  like  to  know — " 

"I've  no  time  to  argue.  You're  going  with  me,  to-night, 
down  to  Aberdeen.  I've  taken  a  private  ward  for  you 
there.  I'm  going  to  pay  your  bills  there.  I'm  going  to 
get  the  booze  out  of  you,  and  keep  it  out." 

"Well,  of  all  the—" 

"Do  you  like  being  mayor,  Tim?" 

Maclntyre,  flushed,  speechless,  stared  weakly  up  at  him. 

Quakers  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"Because  if  you  do,  you've  got  just  one  chance  of  getting 
re-elected." 

"Who's  to  hinder?" 

"I  am.    You're  taking  orders  from  me  now." 

"Oh,  I  am!" 

Quakers  nodded.  "You're  skating  on  the  thinnest  ice  of 
your  career,  Tim.  I  want  to  drive  that  into  your  head.  I've 
got  to  shock  you  sober,  right  now.  When  you're  drunk, 
you  talk.  And  a  man  that's  as  close  to  prison  bars  as  you 
are,  right  now,  has  got  to  keep  his  mouth  shut.  You  have 
no  choice.  Do  exactly  as  I  tell  you,  and  you  may  slip  by." 

"I  guess  we'll  see  what  Harvey  O'Rell's  got  to  say 
about — " 

"O'Rell's  taking  orders  from  me,  too."  Quakers  flicked 
his  cigarette. 

"What  if  I  tell  him  you  said  that?" 

"Told  him  myself,  this  evening.  An  hour  ago.  Get  this 
straight,  and  then  shut  up.  You  can  be  mayor,  O'Rell  can 
stay  with  County  Railways,  but  only  if  you  both  obey 
orders.  I  could  cut  you  both  loose  without  loosing  much 
sleep.  As  for  you,  I've  got  enough  evidence  to  put  you  in 
the  penitentiary  for  ninety-five  to  a  hundred  and  ten  years, 
on  all  counts." 


274  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

Mayor  Tim's  jaw  sagged. 

"Some  of  it's  here  in  my  safe;  some  of  it's  in  Miss  Can- 
tey's  trunk,  out  in  California;  the  rest  is  in  the  bank  vault 
clown-stairs  here  where  none  of  your  precious  friends  could 
get  it  if  they  tried.  .  .  .  Are  you  sobering  up  a  little? 
Have  a  drink  of  water !  .  .  .  Now  listen !  The  Cantey 
Estate  Trust  dissolves  this  fall,  on  Miss  Cantey's  twenty- 
fifth  birthday.  That  invalid  girl,  without  an  hour  of  busi- 
ness experience,  comes  into  control  of  the  entire  property — • 
County  Railways,  Cantey  National,  the  News,  all  the  real 
estate,  the  votes  on  thirty  or  forty  other  boards — " 

"But  a  girl  like  that  couldn't     .     .     ." 

"Of  course  she  couldn't!    But—" 

''Where's  Amme,  I'd  like  to  know!  Ain't  he  supposed 
to—" 

"Shut  up,  Tim!  Amme  has  admitted  to  me — to-day — 
that  he  can't  control  the  situation.  That's  wkat's  the 
matter." 

"Then—" 

''Then  some  other  man  will.  Whoever  she  happens  to 
be  interested  in.  She  may  even  turn  back  to  Calverly.  If 
she  does,  you're  done." 

"Well — well,  I  guess  I  can  drag  you  down  with  me  I" 

"Not  for  a  minute!  I'm  clear.  You  can't  touch  me.  But 
a  young  reformer,  a  dreamer,  once  in  Miss  Cantey's  con- 
fidence, could  raise  hell  with  pretty  nearly  everything  in 
town." 

"You  were  going  to  put  him  in  prison,  too,  Quakers.  You 
talked  big.  Why  didn't  you  do  it  ?" 

"It  proved  not  to  be  a  prison  case.  It's  got  to  be  handled 
in  another  way." 

"But  he's  right  here!    Got  a  job  in  this  building!" 

"Leave  him  to  me.  I'm  going  to  take  you  to  Aberdeen 
now.  Remember,  unless  you  want  me  to  kick  you  into  the 
gutter,  where  you  belong,  keep  sober  and  keep  still." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?    If  I — " 

Quakers  raised  a  steady  hand.  "Just  that" — he  said, 
"keep  still!  I'm  going  to  drive  over  to  Dayton  from  Aber- 
deen and  catch  a  train  for  California.  Come  along." 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-ONE 

]n  Which  Esther  and  Will  Applcby  Come  to  an  Under- 
standing Regarding  the  One  Difficult  Topic 

ESTHER  APPLEBY  lay  on  a  couch  by  an  open  window ; 
a  novel  in  her  lap,  a  box  of  chocolates  at  her  elbow. 
The  warm  California  sunshine  poured  in  at  the  western 
windows.  The  air  was  richly  heavy  with  the  scent  of 
flowers. 

She  heard  her  husband's  solid  step  on  the  walk  out- 
side. He  came  stamping  back  through  the  bungalow.  The 
door  opened.  He  was  warm  from  walking.  She  noted  the 
way  his  hair  lay,  wet  and  straight  against  his  forehead. 
Faint  streaks  of  gray  were  visible  in  it.  He  would  be  tak- 
ing a  bath ;  then  she  would  dress,  and  they  would  sit  down, 
with  Miriam,  to  dinner.  Little  would  be  said.  Will  would 
make  talk,  in  his  clumsy  way.  He  would  certainly  try  to 
joke  a  little.  .  .  .  Miriam  insisted  on  being  helped  in 
to  dinner  now.  She  walked  a  little  every  day,  in  spite  of 
evident  weakness  and  puzzling  little  setbacks.  She  was 
slender,  pale,  dignified ;  a  queer  girl,  Esther  thought,  all  hos- 
tile silences. 

Will  was  growing  fat.  Esther  noted  now  the  roll  at  the 
back  of  his  neck  above  the  limp  collar.  And  his  hair  was 
thin  on  top.  Every  morning  and  evening  her  eyes  rested 
on  these  little  indications  of  approaching  middle  age.  At 
these  times  she  usually  spoke  rather  quickly  of  impersonal 
things,  trifling  things. 

He  stood  now,  squared  away  from  her,  his  solid  legs 
planted  a  little  apart,  lighting  a  cigar.  She  reached  for  a 
fan.  She  wished  he  wouldn't  smoke  in  here.  .  .  .  Dur- 
ing the  past  year  or  so  he  had  thickened  about  the  shoulders. 
He  took  off  his  coat.  Her  irritation  deepened.  Will — 
there  was  no  getting  around  it — was  a  small  manufacturer. 
He  looked  like  one.  He  chewed  a  cigar  like  one.  His  mind 

275 


276  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

dwelt — to  the  point  of  brooding — on  price  quotations  and 
problems  of  the  shop.  He  quoted  his  foreman  a  good  deal. 
He  thought  much  of  the  encouraging  or  discouraging  nature 
of  his  personal  relations  with  the  dominant  business  men 
and  bankers  at  home.  His  spirits  rose  and  fell  as  these 
relationships  seemed  to  be  strengthening  or  weakening.  He 
used  the  Golf  Club  and  the  Town  Club  shamelessly  in  devel- 
oping business  connections ;  in  his  heart,  she  thought,  never 
dreamed  that  clubs  had  any  other  use.  .  .  .  She  drew 
never  a  flash  from  him,  never  a  touch  of  unlooked-for 
quality,  never  a  thrill — she,  who  had  grown  up  in  an  atmos- 
phere breathed  by  men  big  in  imagination  and  courage. 

Just  now  his  spirits  were  rather  high.  She  could  tell 
by  his  walk;  by  the  way  he  stood.  There  was  a  faint 
touch  of  arrogance  about  him.  He  had  received  a  good 
letter  from  the  factory;  or  perhaps  had  met  a  prominent 
man  and  been  well  treated.  Esther  hardly  cared. 

She  spoke,  in  a  slightly  querulous  voice. 

"Miriam  walked  out  in  the  garden  to-day.  With  Miss 
Russell,  of  course." 

"That  girl  ought  to  be  careful,"  said  Will,  without  turn- 
ing. 

"It  was  too  much." 

"Next  thing  she'll  break  down  for  keeps." 

"That's  what  I  told  her.  She  was  rude  about  it.  It's 
come  to  a  point  now  where  she  simply  won't  listen  to  me. 
It  seems  rather  unfair,  after  the  sacrifice  I've  made  to  come 
out  here.  And  you,  of  course — two  trips.  I  wonder  if  she 
thinks  your  business  is  nothing  to  us." 

"Money  never  meant  much  to  her,"  Will  muttered. 

This  approached  perilously  the  one  most  difficult  topic. 

Esther  responded  with  a  low — 

"How  could  it?" 

After  which  they  fell  silent.  Will  disappeared  in  the 
direction  of  their  bathroom.  Shortly  she  heard  him  puffing 
and  splashing.  She  wished  he  would  bathe  more  quietly. 

Her  almost  humorless  mind,  alert  as  always,  dwelt  on  the 
strange  girl,  shut  up  now  in  her  room  at  the  end  of  the 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  277 

long  hall.  Miriam's  hostility  was  evident,  yet  elusive. 
After  the  one  painful  night  of  illness  and  argument,  and 
after  the  long  ride  westward,  she  had  seemed  to  accept  the 
situation.  She  fell  in  with  every  plan  made  for  her  except 
the  one  of  staying  at  the  old  Jim  Cantey  ranch;  she  had 
quietly  insisted  on  being  nearer  town.  It  was  impossible 
now  to  divine  her  thoughts.  The  only  outstanding  fact  was 
her  firm  resolve  to  walk  and  be  well — a  purpose  in  which 
the  local  physician  tacitly  encouraged  her.  Esther  had  talked 
a  little  with  him  about  it,  pointing  out  Miriam's  weakness 
and  her  curious,  half-suppressed  nervousness ;  but  all  she 
could  draw  from  this  doctor  was,  "We  may  as  well  trust 
her  instinct." 

Esther's  only  clue  to  the  thoughts  back  of  the  quiet, 
rather  sad  face  was  the  fact  that  she  watched  from  hour 
to  hour  for  the  mail.  She  was  never  far  away  when  the 
postman's  time  drew  around.  She  always  sent  Miss  Rus- 
sell at  once  for  it.  Miss  Russell  reported,  however,  that  no 
letter  had  come  from  the  Stafford-Calverly  person.  She 
knew  his  writing. 

Esther  idly  watched  her  husband  dress. 

"I'm  not  sure  we  wouldn't  'a'  done  better  to  have  Martin 
run  out  here  again.  Costs  a  lot,  of  course."  Thus  Will,  in 
an  unnatural  voice,  as  he  was  struggling  to  button  his  collar. 
"This  man  may  be  all  right,  but  he  doesn't  understand  Mi- 
riam's case." 

"That's  it,"  replied  Esther,  guardedly.  "He  doesn't  un- 
derstand her.  First  thing  we  know  she'll  be  flat  on  her 
back,  a  helpless  invalid." 

"Of  course  we  can't  go  on  like  this,"  said  Will. 

"Not  forever,  certainly." 

"Not  much  longer." 

"Well,  we  can't  take  her  back.  That  fellow  is  still  there. 
Working  in  the  City  Trust  Building.  You  read  Mr.  Amme's 
letter.  And  she  hasn't  given  him  up.  She  can't  fool  me." 

"It's  a  question  in  my  mind  whether  your  father  ever 
meant  it  as  they  say.  He  wouldn't  have  left  everything — 
well,  practically  everything  .  .  ." 


278  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

Will's  voice  faded  out.  He  knit  his  brows  over  the  prob- 
lem of  knotting  a  tie. 

Esther  compressed  her  lips. 

"It  does  raise  the  question  of  her  responsibility.  When 
you  think  of  men  like  Mr.  Amme  and  Mr.  O'Rell  and  Mr. 
Listerly  actually  having  to  wait  on  the  whims  of  a  neuras- 
thenic girl.  .  .  .  And  it's  coming  down  to  a  matter 
of  weeks  now.  It  does  seem  as  if  we  might  do  something." 

"It  isn't  just  those  men,"  remarked  Will,  turning  for  a 
side  view  of  his  coat  in  the  mirror,  ''it's  what  they  repre- 
sent. County  Railways  and  the  Cantey  National  and  the 
News — institutions!  Of  course,  if  Miriam  was — if  she  was 
— well,  normal,  you'd  say  it  was  just  the  chances  of  life. 
Even  if  she  lost  her  head  and  married  some  irresponsible 
young  fool,  I  don't  suppose  we  could  very  well  say  any- 
thing. We've  got  to  assume  that  your  father  knew  what  he 
was  doing." 

"If  he  did  it." 

"Say,  what  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"Don't  call  me  'say,'  Will,  please!  I  mean  simply  this: 
The  search  for  a  later  will  never  satisfied  me." 

Her  husband  was  touched  with  a  thrill  of  pure  excite- 
ment. She  had  never  before,  during  the  years,  spoken  so 
directly  to  the  point.  He  brushed  his  clothes  more  violently 
and  longer  than  was  necessary.  He  said  something  that 
Esther  couldn't  hear. 

"If  you'll  stop  mumbling  and  put  down  that  brush  I  may 
be  able  to  understand  you,"  she  said. 

"I  say — whatever  papers  there  were  must  have  been  in 
the  safe.  Nobody  knows  exactly  what  zvas  there." 

"Some  of  them  are  here — a  tin  box  full.  She  made  Mi>s 
Russell  carry  her  in  that  last  night,  while  we  were  sleep- 
ing. She  wears  the  key  around  her  neck.  She  gets  more 
suspicious  every  day.  It's  almost  a  persecution  mania  now. 
.  .  .  Miss  Russell  tried  to  get  the  combination  of  the 
safe,  but  the  light  wasn't  very  good." 

"Pretty  hard  to  pick  up  a  combination  that  way,"  said 
Will,  aiming  at  an  offhand  manner. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  279 

"I  was  wondering  .  .  .  Esther,  heedless  of  ap- 
proaching dinner,  nibbled  a  chocolate.  She  too  was  deeply 
excited.  "Times  do  come,  you  know,  when  people  have  to 
be  looked  after.  .  .  .  You  know,  a  young  woman  who 
isn't  in  normal  health  can't  expect  to  control  great  prop- 
erties and  at  the  same  time  let  herself  fall  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  first  ne'er-do-well  that  has  the  audacity  to  make 
love  to  her." 

A  touch  of  huskiness  was  creeping  into  Esther's  voice. 
A  daring  concept  was  taking  form  for  the  first  time  in  her 
brooding  mind. 

Her  husband  felt  the  change  in  her.  She  was  not  queru- 
lous now.  She  was  getting  at  something.  For  that  matter 
they  were  both  getting  at  something.  He  couldn't  trust  his 
own  voice  at  the  moment.  His  brain  was  stirring  strangely, 
and  his  pulse  was  bounding.  He  turned  to  the  mirror  and 
covered  his  confusion  by  carefully  straightening  his  tie. 

"You  know  perfectly  well,  Will,  that  these  things  have  to 
be  handled."  Esther  was  sitting  up  now. 

"Of  course,"  he  muttered  quickly.    "Sure  they  do." 

"Oh,  handled  nicely,  of  course.  With  the  greatest  care. 
People's  feelings  must  be  considered.  There  are  places — 
Oh,  nice  places;  very  comfortable;  best  of  attention!  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  knock.  Miss  Russell  stood  at  the  door.  She 
said: 

"Miss  Cantey  isn't  feeling  well,  Mrs.  Appleby.  She 
says  she  won't  join  you  at  dinner." 

"She  overdid  to-day,  I  suppose." 

"I  think  so.  I  cautioned  her.  But  she  feels  that  she 
must  walk  a  little  farther  every  day." 

"She'll  break  down  altogether  next." 

"I'm  afraid  so,  Mrs.  Appleby.  But  Doctor  Wells  said  I 
was  to  let  her  try." 

"I  know!  Oh,  I  know!  .  .  .  That's  all  now,  Miss 
Russell." 

The  door  closed.    Esther  got  up  to  dress. 

"We  must  be  careful  not  to  talk  it  over  before  Miss  Rus- 
sell or  the  servants,"  she  said.  "I'm  sure  there  must  be 


280  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

quiet  institutions  where  invalids  and  people  that  aren't 
wholly  responsible  can  be  taken  care  of." 

"Plenty  of  'em!  Only  thing  is,  I  don't  know  just  how 
those  things  are  done.  Have  to  get  a  little  advice  on  it." 
This  brought  up  another  thought.  "Oswald  Quakers  is 
here." 

"Oswald  Qualters  here?    .     .     .     Where?" 

"Over  at  the  hotel.  I  had  a  cocktail  with  him.  A  mighty 
decent  fellow." 

"But  what's  he  doing  away  out  here?" 

"Oh,  he  has  interests  out  this  way.  There's  an  able  man, 
now !  Likely  to  turn  up  most  anywhere,  when  you  least  ex- 
pect him." 

"I  wonder"  .  .  .  Esther  mused.  "I  wonder  if  it 
mightn't  be  possible  to  advise  with  him.  He  knows  the  city. 
He's  very  shrewd." 

"Oh,  he's  that !" 

"We  couldn't  talk  with  Mr.  Amme." 

"No.  That's  funny,  too.  Amme's  with  us,  all  right.  He 
feels,  as  we  do,  that  it  would  be  outrageous  to  let  Cantey 
Estate  he  scattered  to  the  four  winds  of  Heaven  by  an 
irresponsible  girl.  But  he's — Amme's — " 

"He  hasn't  a  spark  of  imagination,"  Esther  cut  in  shortly. 
"Tell  me,  how  long  is  Mr.  Qualters  to  be  here?" 

"A  few  days,  anyway,  I  gather.  He's  asked  me  to  go  out 
fishing  with  him,  after  the  big  fish.  I  told  him  I'd  think  it 
over." 

"Listen,  Will!  We  mustn't  speak  a  word  of  this  in  the 
dining-room.  But  you  look  him  up  to-night  and  lay  the 
matter  straight  before  him.  He's  a  man  we  could  talk 
to.  Don't  mince  matters.  Make  it  clear.  He'll  see  quickly 
enough  where  we  stand.  If  we  don't  protect  the  Cantey 
name  and  the — well,  the  Cantey  wealth,  from  utter  destruc- 
tion, nobody  will.  We  can't  leave  Miriam  around  loose. 
Be  frank  about  it — he'll  understand.  We  can't  have  her 
marrying.  Not  now.  And  not  that  convict.  He's  played  on 
her  sympathies.  She's  acted  like  a  romantic  child.  We've  got 
to  stop  it,  squarely  and  surely.  We  owe  that  much  to  her." 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-TWO 
Qualters  Finds  the  Hour  Ripe 

WILL  APPLEBY  sat  on  the  hotel  veranda.  The  soft 
night  air  was  soothing  to  the  spirit.  Also  soothing, 
to  Will,  was  the  excellent  cigar  he  was  smoking.  Within 
the  hotel  an  orchestra  was  playing.  Best  of  all,  right  at 
hand,  sprawled  out  comfortably  in  a  rocker,  sat  Oswald 
Quakers,  chatting  in  an  easy  impersonal  way  that  Will 
found  himself  imitating  with,  he  fancied,  a  good  deal  of 
success.  The  mere  thought  that  Quakers  was  so  courteous, 
so  downright  friendly,  in  giving  up  his  time  like  this  was 
thrilling  to  Will  Appleby.  It  stirred  him  to  an  expansive- 
ness  that  he  knew  well  enough  he  must  curb.  Quakers 
didn't  give  his  time  unless  he  thought  it  worth  while. 
Behind  his  lightly  casual  manner  lay  a  mind  like  a  smooth, 
well-oiled,  complicated  piece  of  machinery.  It  was  just  as 
well  not  to  talk  carelessly  to  Quakers,  no  matter  how  easy 
and  friendly  he  seemed. 

Will  wished  that  Quakers  would  give  him  an  opening: 
ask  how  Miriam  was,  or  speak  of  their  being  out  West  here, 
or  something.  But  Quakers  appeared  to  have  nothing  on 
his  mind  b'ut  fishing.  In  his  quiet  way  He  was  like  a  boy 
about  it. 

Finally,  during  a  lull  in  the  talk,  Will's  pressing  thoughts 
leaped  out  in  the  form  of  words. 

"Curious  problem  my  wife  and  I've  got  just  now." 

Quakers,  listening  courteously,  held  out  his  cigar  case. 

Will  took  one ;  bit  off  the  end ;  lighted  it  from  the  stub 
of  the  other. 

"You  see  my  wife's  sister — she's  always  been  a  prob- 
lem. ..." 

"Oh  ves,  Miss  Cantey.  I  did  hear  she  was  out  here  with 
you.  How  is  she?" 

"Not  right.  That  is,  not  at  all  well.  She's  carried  away 

281 


282  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

with  the  idea  that  Doctor  Martin's  been  misleading  her  all 
these  years — that  she'll  be  well  as  soon  as  she  can  develop 
her  muscles  a  little.  And  the  fellow  we've  got  here's  en- 
couraging her." 

"She's  had  a  hard  time  of  it,  poor  girl." 

"She's — what's  that?  Oh,  yes,  she  has.  I  talked  with 
this  man  Wells  yesterday.  Haven't  told  my  wife.  It  hardly 
seemed  necessary.  He's  non-committal.  Damn  these  doc- 
tors, anyhow !  Why  do  they  have  to  keep  up  all  this  mys- 
tery? Why  can't  they  speak  out,  now  and  then,  like  the 
rest  of  us?" 

"Apparently  they  can't." 

"That's  a  fact !  Well,  he  says  it's  quite  possible  that  she 
was  as  badly  hurt  as  they  thought,  but  it's  also  possible 
that  she's  really  all  right  now.  Or  that  she'd  get  all  right 
in  time.  He  said  something  about  difficulties  in  diagnosis. 
Protecting  the  other  doctors,  I  suppose.  They  all  do  that. 
They're  organized  against  us.  We  can't  do  a  thing." 

"We  can  pay  the  bills." 

"That's  right.  They  certainly  have  us  there!  '  Well,  I 
pointed  out  the  nervous  condition  she's  in.  He  wouldn't 
talk  much  about  that.  Except  to  ask  if  she'd  had  any 
unusual  mental  shock  lately.  .  .  .  Well,  she  has,  of 
course." 

"Oh,  is  that  so?" 

"Yes.  I'm  telling  you  this  with  my  eyes  open,  Quakers. 
The  fact  is,  we've  got  to  have  advice,  my  wife  and  I.  In 
some  way — one  way  or  another — I'm  afraid  we've  got  to 
act.  And  the  time  is  short.  .  .  .  Are  you  familiar  with 
the  provisions  of  Mr.  Cantey's  will?" 

"Oh,  in  a  general  way." 

"Well,  for  some  reason  he  virtually  passed  over  my  wife, 
his  older  daughter.  Oh,  he  left  something  to  her — money, 
and  some  property :  shares  in  this  and  that — but  only  about 
a  quarter  to  a  third  of  the  estate.  He  was  a  little  rough' 
about  it,  too,  a  year  or  so  before  his  death ;  said  she  had 
her  health  and  a  husband,  and  he  wouldn't  worry  about  her. 
Everything  else  went  to  Miriam.  .  .  ." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  283 

Qualters  raised  a  hand.    He  disliked  long  explanations. 

"I  do  remember,"  he  said.  "And  Miss  Cantey  now  con- 
trols most  of  the  corporate  property." 

"Every  damn'  thing!  County  Railways,  Cantey  National, 
the  News,  all  but  one  or  two  of  the  railway  properties,  the 
Cantey  Line — outright ! — and  a  lot  more." 

"You'd  hardly  say  she  controls  it.  There  was  a  trust. 
I  remember  that  O'Rell,  Listerly,  and — " 

"And  Amme." 

''Yes,  Amme." 

"The  trust  expires  this  year.  When  she's  twenty-five. 
Meantime,  she's  become  infatuated  with  an  out-and-out 
adventurer  that's  turned  up  at  home.  Called  himself  Staf- 
ford. An  alias.  Real  name — " 

"Calverly.  I've  followed  that  case  a  little.  Interesting. 
Picturesque,  that  is." 

"He's  a  bad  egg.  A  jailbird.  She's  already  let  him  make 
love  to  her.  Called  it  an  engagement,  herself ;  but  had  to 
admit  that  he  hadn't  told  her  of  his  prison  experience. 
She'd  already  let  him  in  on  Mr.  Cantey's  private  papers. 
.  .  .  You  see,  men  haven't  figured  much  in  her  life. 
She  went  wild  over  him.  Utterly  unreasonable.  There  was 
only  one  thing  to  do.  We  had  to  bring  her  away." 

"Does  she  show  signs  of  getting  over  this  infatuation?" 

"Hard  to  say.  But  we  think  not.  She  watches  the  mails 
every  minute.  And  she  won't  talk.  Just  keeps  plugging 
at  this  exercise  thing.  .  .  .  Any  one  can  see  she's  a 
nervous  wreck.  You  know,  over-intense.  .  .  .  Here's 
the  trouble.  We  can't  let  her  come  into  control  of  all  that 
property.  Now,  can  we?  My  God,  try  to  imagine  her  and 
this  adventurer— throwing  all  conservatism  to  the  winds; 
married,  likely  as  not— raising  hell  with  Cantey  Estate !" 

He  was  raising  his  voice.  Very  calmly  and  deliberately 
Qualters  asked — 

"What  can  you  do?" 

"Well — now  here's  where  we  really  need  counsel — it 
looks  as  if  we'd  have  to  act  firmly.  That  girl  is  in  no  con- 
dition to  control  vast  properties.  Any  unprejudiced  court 


284  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

would  decide  that.  These  things  mustn't  be  put  into  her 
hands.  We've  thought — my  wife  came  to  it  first,  her  own 
sister! — that  the  kindest  thing — and  the  fairest  to  all  these 
important  business  interests  that  are  absolutely  dependent 
on  sound  management  and — you  see.  .  .  ." 

"You're  thinking  of  shutting  her  away  in  some  insti- 
tution?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know's  I'd  put  it  just — " 

"But  that's  what  it  comes  down  to?" 

"Well,  of  course—" 

"Hum!"  Qualters  pursed  his  lips.  In  the  dim  light,  Will, 
glancing  sidelong,  could  just  make  out  his  features. 

"You  don't  think  it's  a  good  plan  ?" 

"Xo."  Qualters  shook  his  head.  That  was  all  he  said 
about  it.  But  he  was  clearly  thinking  about  it.  Will  would 
have  given  a  week's  income  to  know  just  what  he  was 
thinking. 

"I'll  tell  yon,"  the  small  manufacturer  finally  broke  out — 
"suppose  you — I  wonder  if —  You  have  as  intimate  a 
knowledge  as  anybody  of  the  business  fabric  of  our  city.  I 
can't  talk  to  Amme.  .  .  ." 

"Amme  has  handled  the  family  affairs,  hasn't  he?" 

"Yes.     For  years.    Ever  since  Bellwether  died." 

"Shouldn't  he  have  been  able  to  hold  Miss  Cantey's  con- 
fidence— guide  her — ?" 

"That's  just  what  I  tell  my  wife.  But  he's  fallen  down. 
Flat!  She  won't  think  of  turning  to  him.  Now  you — you 
know  these  properties — you've  got  a  big  stake  in  the  com- 
munity. .  .  .  I'll  tell  you,  considering  all  that's  at  stake, 
would  you  mind  stepping  around  to  the  house  with  me  ?  I'd 
like  my  wife  to  see  you." 

Casually,  talking  again  of  fishing.  Quakers  stepped 
around.  Will  said  next  to  nothing.  He  was  preoccupied, 
and  breathed  rather  hard.  He  felt  that  he  was  putting 
through  a  large  and  complicated  undertaking.  He  was 
excited.  Soon  he  would  be  tired.  It  would  affect  his  sleep 
that  nierht. 

Qualters  found  the  little  triangular  conspiracy  interest- 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  285 

ing,  even  amusing.  They  sat  on  the  veranda,  their  voices 
hushed.  Miss  Cantey  was  somewhere  within.  .  .  . 
Esther  Appleby  impressed  him  as  curiously  self-centered, 
even,  at  moments,  passionately  vehement  in  a  suppressed 
\vay.  She  was  burning  with  self- justification.  Over  and 
over  she  mentioned  the  sacrifice  she  was  making ;  she  spoke, 
at  some  length,  of  her  responsibility  as  elder  sister.  And 
her  husband,  evidently  safe  under  her  thumb,  broke  in,  at 
intervals,  with  puffy  bits  of  corroboration. 

\Yhile  they  talked,  and  while  he  quietly,  soothingly  an- 
swered them,  Quakers  thought  deeply ;  mainly  of  various 
possible  plans,  weighing  one  scheme  after  another  and  dis- 
carding them  in  turn.  Finally  his  mind  settled  on  one. 
After  this  his  thoughts  roved  afield.  It  was  no  good  lis- 
tening to  all  these  earnest,  eager  words.  He  read  Esther 
as  he  had  read  her  husband,  through  and  through.  Before 
she  had  talked  five  minutes  he  knew  every  thought  that  was 
in  her  strong,  ungoverned  mind  and  every  deep  desire  that 
underlay  the  conscious  thought.  He  dwelt  a  little  on  great 
fortunes.  They  were  interesting,  fortunes;  pregnant  with 
drama,  with  conflict  and  bitterness,  with  lust  of  power,  the 
whole  human  comedy.  And  Quakers  found  the  human 
comedy  always  absorbing.  .  .  .  Take  Esther  Cantey, 
here — Esther  Appleby,  rather.  A  woman  without  subtlety, 
without  shadows ;  more  direct  than  most.  Rather  a  pretty 
woman,  still.  With  a  touch  of  her  father's  driving  power, 
at  least  of  his  big  want.  Jim  Cantey  had  wanted  hugely — 
more  and  more  power.  That  burning  want  had  carried 
him  almost  to  the  very  top  of  the  business  structure;  it 
had  carried  him  into  the  Senate  at  Washington ;  it  had  made 
his  name  literally  a  household  word  in  the  United  States, 
Canada  and  England,  in  a  hundred  ports  of  the  Pacific, 
all  through  the  Orient  and  the  South  Seas.  And  this 
personable  little  Mrs.  Appleby,  with  her  dub  of  a  husband 
— "dub"  was  the  word  in  Quakers'  mind — wanted,  wanted, 
wanted.  For  the  bulk  of  the  Cantey  fortune,  for  the  power 
and  prominence  it  would  give  her  in  New  York,  London, 
Paris,  among  the  Old  World  aristocracy,  she  was  willing 


286  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

virtually  to  imprison  her  invalid  younger  sister.  She  had 
clearly  persuaded  herself  that  it  was  the  only  right  thing 
to  do.  All  of  half  an  hour  was  lost  in  quietly  arguing  her 
out  of  it. 

And  the  sister  was  interesting.  She  didn't  seem  to  care 
a  hang  about  power  and  place.  What  she  wanted,  appar- 
ently, was  a  young  man  of  a  literary  turn  who  literally 
couldn't  support  himself,  a  boy  who  had  made  an  utter 
failure  of  his  life.  Quite  a  picturesque  little  mix-up. 

"But  what  are  we  to  do?"  Thus  pretty  Mrs.  Appleby. 
"You  surely  don't  advocate  letting  the  thing  drift." 

"No,"  said  Qualters,  "certainly  not.  Miss  Cantey  doesn't 
want  all  this  business  coming  down  on  her  personally.  She 
can't  undertake  to  direct  the  operation  of  County  Railways, 
or  sit  in  directors'  meetings.  Somebody's  got  to  do  all 
that  for  her.  It's  been  done  through  the  Trust.  We  could 
easily  enough  form  a  new  Trust  agreement,  made  up  a 
little  differently.  Or  we  could  incorporate  Cantey  Estate, 
make  it  a  legal  holding  company  for  all  the  properties. 
But  if  we  did  that,  either  she,  or  somebody  acting  in  her 
interest,  would  have  to  direct  just  the  same.  On  the  whole, 
I  think  her  interests  would  be  best  protected  through  a  new 
Trust  agreement.  She  would  give  complete  power  of  attor- 
ney to  the  Trust  for  five  years,  ten  years,  as  long  as  she 
liked,  and  in  return  would  receive  a  yearly  allowance  with 
full  accounting.  Tin's  would  stabilize  the  properties.  And 
it  would  protect  her,  save  her  from  being  worn  out  by 
business  troubles.  She  doesn't  want  those." 

Esther,  her  eyes  burning  in  the  half  light,  her  voice 
husky,  leaned  forward. 

"Would  you  be  willing  to  serve  on  the  new  Trust,  Mr. 
Qualters  ?" ' 

For  one  brief  moment  Qualters  hesitated.  A  picture 
rose  in  his  mind  of  an  odd  little  gathering  in  his  library, 
at  home.  Amme  had  been  there — proper,  confused  little 
Amme — and  Harvey  O'Rell,  and  an  extremely  drunk  mayor, 
and  this  Henry  Calverly  who  had  managed,  without  means 
and  without  an  atom  of  business  intelligence,  to  make  a  devil 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  287 

of  a  lot  of  trouble  in  town.  He  heard  again  the  ring  of 
the  telephone ;  caught  the  tones  of  Miriam  Cantey's  voice 
asking  for  "Mr.  Stafford" ;  heard  his  own  voice  responding 
with  a  quiet  little  lie.  Then  Calverly  had  snatched  the 
instrument  away  and  answered  her.  .  .  .  She  had 
known  Calverly  was  there.  She  must  have  known  that 
Amme  called  him  up  and  asked  him  to  come  there. 
How  much  more  did  she  know?  ...  He  leaned  back 
and  blew  out  a  long  arrow  of  smoke.  It  was  his  method 
to  control  through  other  men,  never  to  appear  in  a  matter 
where  some  one  else  would  do,  to  pull  the  strings  from 
behind  the  local  scene.  .  .  .  But  he  had  to  answer  Mrs. 
Appleby's  question.  And  he  had  to  keep  close  to  Cantey 
Estate  or  suffer  what  might  turn  out  to  be  the  greatest 
setback  of  his  life. 

"I'm  pretty  busy,"  he  said. 

"Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Appleby  quickly.  "It  would  be 
an  imposition.  I  understand  that.  But  you  see  what  a 
position  we're  in." 

"As  a  public  sen-ice,"  the  husband  put  in. 

Qualters  considered  it  a  moment  longer;  then,  quietly 
but  with  remarkable  dismissive  force,  said: 

"If  Miss  Cantey  herself  will  ask  it,  I'll  undertake  it." 

"Splendid !"  breathed  Mrs.  Appleby. 

"We  must  emphasize  that  point  of  protecting  her!"  said 
Will,  eagerly. 

Qualters  and  Esther  were  silent.  For  one  oddly  long 
moment  their  eyes  met.  She  was  still  leaning  forward,  her 
whole  being  focussed  on  the  desire  to  win  him  to  her 
service.  And  he,  suddenly,  quite  unexpectedly,  felt  her 
presence  almost  as  if  there  were  physical  contact  between 
them.  And  in  the  moment  his  quick,  cold  mind  ranged  far. 
She  uvs  pretty.  There  was  a  nervous  force  in  her  that 
her  heavy- witted  husband  could  never  so  much  as  sense. 
An  affair  with  her  might  be  pleasing  and  stimulating.  He 
considered  it  fully,  quickly.  .  .  .  There  were  draw- 
backs. She  had  no  humor.  Her  wants  were,  after  all,  im- 
mense. She  might  be  exigent;  almost  certainly  would  be. 


288  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

It  seemed  hardly  likely  that  she  had  the  discretion  necessary 
to  such  an  adventure.  She  probably  wouldn't  be  what  he 
regarded  as  a  good  sport;  and  she  would  have  to  be  that. 
Then  it  would  be,  again,  a  home-town  affair ;  they  had  too 
many  common  acquaintances  who  would  be  quick  to  catcli 
evidence. 

.  He  decided  against  it.    The  decision  was  final. 

A  little  later,  when  he  rose  to  go,  and  Will  was  occupied 
for  a  moment,  her  hand  lingered  a  thought  too  long  in  his ; 
she  spoke  rather  breathlessly  of  this  or  that,  something 
about  the  new  plan;  he  thought  she  was  flushing. 

He  dropped  her  hand ;  spoke  genially,  including  her  hus- 
band ;  and  left. 

Esther,  standing  at  Will's  side,  looked  after  Quakers' 
shadowy  figure. 

Still  breathless,  strung  high,  she  suddenly  laughed  in  a 
way  that  brought  Will's  brows  down  in  a  slight,  puzzled 
scowl. 

"How  wonderfully  he  grasps  things!"  she  cried  softly. 
"And  everything  seems  so  easy,  the  way  he  puts  it.  He's  a 
big  man." 

Then,  with  a  quick  glance  up  at  her  husband,  and  an 
abrupt  change  of  key,  she  slipped  her  arm  through  his ; 
said,  "Well,  let's  go  in,  Will.  Now  that  he's  taken  hold, 
I  feel  that  I  can  sleep." 

Again,  very  softly,  she  laughed. 

Her  husband's  brows  drew  down  a  little  closer. 

"It's  easy  to  do  it  that  way,"  he  remarked,  vaguely 
irritated,  "when  you  hold  all  the  good  cards.  I  guess  I'd 
know  how  to  play  a  good  hand  if  I  had  it.  ...  You 
see,  he's  got  Senator  Painter  squarely  back  of  him.  It's 
Painter's  money  that  he  operates  with.  Pretty  soft !" 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-THREE 

Tlie  Spirit  of  Jim  Cantey 

ESTHER  herself  carried  in  Miriam's  tray  in  the  morn- 
ing. She  was  almost  cooingly  sweet  in  manner.  She 
smiled;  asked  Miriam  how  she  had  slept;  pleasantly  sug- 
gested a  day  of  quiet  rest. 

Miriam  glanced  at  her,  puzzled;  then  soberly  sipped  her 
coffee. 

"Who  do  you  think  Will  ran  across  last  evening — the 
merest  chance — he's  out  here  on  a  fishing  trip — Oswald 
Quakers !" 

Miriam,  more  and  more  puzzled,  repeated  the  words, 
"Oswald  Quakers." 

"Yes,  we  had  a  little  visit.  You  had  gone  to  bed.  We 
were  speaking  of  one  thing  and  another — I  don't  remember 
now  how  the  talk  swung  around  to  you — we  were  speaking 
of  fifty  things — and  I  asked  him,  or  Will,  one  of  us — what 
on  earth  we  were  to  do  with  you  when  all  this  business 
comes  down  on  you,  I  mean  the  business  details — " 

Miriam's  eyes  flashed  up.    Esther  hurried  on — 

"Oh,  these  great  responsibilities.  You  can't  be  expected 
to  go  to  directors'  meetings,  and  hire  men  for  County  Rail- 
ways, and  do  things  at  the  bank,  and  go  to  New  York  for 
meetings  of  the  Cantey  Line — Oh,  there's  a  thousand  things ! 
Mr.  Amme's  done  them,  and  Harvey  O'Rell,  and  Mr.  Lis- 
terly — Will  happened  to  speak  of  it  only  the  other  day, 
\vondering  how  on  earth  you'd  ever  carry  all  that  load. 
You  see,  dear,  when  the  Trust  expires,  on  your  birthday, 
those  men  won't  have  any  right  to  make  all  those  decisions 
for  you.  Something'll  have  to  be  done.  The  most  difficult 
sort  of  business  decisions,  you  know." 

Esther  felt  those  great  blue  eyes  on  her,  and  talked  hard 
and  fast.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  important  thing  was 

2X9 


290  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

to  get  the  whole  idea  out  at  once,  presented  fully  and  right 
end  to. 

"One  of  us — Will,  I  think — happened  to  say  to  Mr. 
Qualters  that  we've  worried  some  over  your  condition — 
you  see,  he'd  asked  about  you,  how  you  were — and  Will 
explained  that  it  bothered  him  to  think  of  all  these  tre- 
mendous problems  being  plumped  suddenly  on  your  shoul- 
ders and  he'd  wondered  what  on  earth  could  be  done  to  save 
you  from  it.  And  Mr.  Quakers  said  it  was  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world,  simply  for  you  to  consent  to  a  new  Trust 
being  formed  to  manage  Cantey  Estate — for  a  term  of 
years,  you  know — and  make  you  a  regular  allowance  and 
account  to  you  every  year.  .  .  ." 

Miriam's  eyes  were  downcast  now.  She  was  pale;  her 
sensitive  lips  were  slightly  compressed. 

Esther  caught  her  breath,  and,  with  diminishing  assur- 
ance, pressed  on. 

"We  all  knew,  you  see,  that  the  present  Trust  hasn't  been 
altogether  satisfactory.  Mr.  Quakers  is  a  very  discreet 
man,  and  he  wouldn't  criticize  anybody,  but  I'm  sure  he 
understands  your  hesitation  in  confiding  in  Mr.  Amme  or 
in  a  man  like  Harvey  O'Rell.  He  did  say  that  the  new 
Trust  ought  to  be  made  up  a  little  differently.  I  asked 
him  then — he  understood  perfectly  that  I  had  no  right  to 
speak  for  you — I  asked  him  if  he  would  be  willing,  as  a 
matter  of  public  spirit,  to  serve  on  the  Trust.  He  thought 
it  over,  and  said  yes,  he  would,  if  you  asked  him.  He 
wouldn't  consider  it  under  any  other  conditions.  It  would 
have  to  be  on  your  request." 

Miss  Russell  tapped  at  the  door. 

"Telephone,  Mrs.  Appleby,  please,"  she  said. 

When  Esther  had  gone,  Miriam  asked,  very  quietly,  of 
the  nurse — 

"Didn't  I  hear  the  postman?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Cantey.    There  was  nothing  for  you." 

Miriam's  eyes  again  sought  the  tray. 

"You  didn't  sleep  well?"  asked  Miss  Russell. 

"Oh — well  enough !     .    .     .    You  may  take  the  tray." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  291 

"But  you  haven't  eaten !" 

"Take  the  tray,  please.  And  leave  my  cane  here  by  the 
bed.  I'll  ring  if  I  need  you." 

The  nurse  obeyed.     The  door  closed. 

Miriam  lay  back  against  the  pillows  and  pressed  her 
hands  to  her  face.  She  lay  there  a  long  time.  At  moments 
the  tears  came  to  her  eyes.  Finally  they  ran  unheeded  down 
her  cheeks. 

With  some  effort  she  got  to  her  trunk ;  brought  the  strong 
box  to  the  bed ;  took  the  key  from  her  neck  and  opened  it. 
She  rummaged  through  the  note-books  and  folders ;  found  a 
long  envelope  on  which  was  written,  in  the  rough  strong 
hand  of  Jim  Cantey,  "To  my  daughter  Miriam.  Not  to  be 
opened  until  after  my  death."  She  drew  out  the  enclosed 
document  and  settled  back  to  read  it  through.  She  felt 
utterly  weak  and  helpless.  She  was  clinging  to  the  hope 
that  her  wonderful  father  would  come  real  again  in  her 
thoughts.  She  must  see  him  again  with  her  mind's  eye; 
feel  him  near;  hear  his  boyish  laugh,  his  quick,  strong 
speaking  voice.  Find  him  again  she  must.  There  was  no 
one  else,  no  one  in  the  world. 

He  would  have  made  nothing  of  the  business  responsi- 
bilities that  were  soon  to  be  hers.  She  found  the  mere 
thought  of  them,  or  even  of  deciding  on  a  method  of  ap- 
proaching the  problem,  overwhelming.  Oh,  for  strength! 
.  .  .  She  hadn't  looked  at  any  of  the  papers  since  that 
amazing  day  with  the  man  she  had  known  as  Hugh  Staf- 
ford. She  read  her  father's  confessional  now  with  feverish 
absorption.  It  was  wonderful  to  her  that  he  could  have 
written  so  naturally,  in  his  own  sometimes  rough  vernacu- 
lar. He  had  always  counted  on  Mr.  Amme  and  other  em- 
ployees to  rephrase  his  public  utterances. 

One  paragraph  she  read  twice : 

"And  then,  just  about  as  I  was  groping  out  of  tins 
dark  period,  came  your  accident.  It  shook  me  to  the  roots 
of  my  life.  The  thought  that  you — you  were  the  most 
beautiful  child  I  ever  knew,  and  the  gayest  and  brightest — 


292  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

could  never  hope  to  walk  again  seemed  more  than  I  could 
bear.  But  it  brought  me  up  standing.  When  your  mind 
runs  back  over  all  your  dreadful  suffering,  at  least  remember 
that.  It  brought  me  up.  God,  how  I've  clung  to  you,  how 
I've  leaned  on  you !  .  .  .  You  know  something  of  what 
these  few  wonderful  years  of  our  companionship  have  been. 
But  you  couldn't  possibly  know  all  they've  meant  to  me. 
For  they  brought  me  out  of  the  wilderness." 

Her  eyes  roved  about  the  room;  rested  on  a  patch  of 
sunshine.  She  was  wishing  that  some  one  might  be  at 
hand  to  bring  her  out  of  the  wilderness. 

"...  I  want  you  to  know  that  it  was  you — your 
fresh  clear  young  mind,  your  sympathy  and  faith — that 
saved  me.  .  .  ." 

Her  mind  seemed  anything  but  fresh  and  clear  now.  She 
was  drifting  on  toward  new  and  great  responsibilities  with- 
out a  plan;  with,  indeed,  nothing  but  a  confused,  hopeless 
spirit.  She  was  taking  it,  as  she  had  come  to  take  Esther's 
authority  and  this  western  journey,  like  a  fatalist. 

She  read  on ;  she  was  determined  to  read  on.  There  was 
vitality  even  in  her  father's  dead  words.  Some  of  that  vital- 
ity she  must  have ;  somehow  she  must  feel  it. 

"So,  if  you  feel  that  you  can,  have  them  tell  the  truth 
about  me,  Miriam.  I've  got  to  leave  the  decision  with  you 
now.  But  if  you  do  try  it,  don't  for  a  moment  forget  that 
they'll  fight  like  rats.  They'll  see  it  means  telling  the  truth 
about  them,  too.  Don't  let  Amme  have  a  hand  in  it,  or 
O'Rell,  or  those  ...  I  couldn't  lay  this  before  Esther. 
She'd  fight  us,  too.  No,  as  it  stands  now,  with  the  thing 
still  unwritten,  you're  the  only  person  in  the  world  that  I 
can  be  honest  with.  An  odd  reflection  on  life,  isn't  it !  And 
we  talk  so  much  about  honesty !  Too  much ! 

"Am  I  too  brusk  with  you,  little  girl? 

"I've  leaned  on  you  so.     .    .    ." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  293 

How  well  he  knew  them — Mr.  Amme,  Mr.  O'Rell,  his 
own  elder  daughter ! 

And  he  had  leaned  on  herself.  At  the  mere  thought,  she 
could  have  laughed  bitterly. 

But  she  fought  the  bitterness.    He  wouldn't  like  that. 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  lay  very  still.  She  could  recall 
now  his  blue,  blue  eyes,  now  his  smile,  now  his  big  frame, 
now  his  thick  hair  with  the  reddish  tinge  touched  only  lightly 
with  gray.  But  she  couldn't  put  the  picture  together. 

Her  thoughts  got  out  of  hand  then,  as  they  so  often  did  at 
night,  and  tried  to  bring  Henry  Calverly  real.  And  mem- 
ory-sensations came — tantalizing,  half-real,  like  the  mind- 
pictures — of  the  time  he  had  kissed  her.  And  of  the  other 
time,  the  first,  when  he  carried  her  in  his  arms.  She  couldn't 
think  how  this  had  come  about,  what  suddenly  forged  chain 
of  little  incidents  had  drawn  them  so  swiftly  together.  They 
had  been  caught  on  a  mighty  current  of  feeling.  She  tried 
— catching  desperately  at  little  elusive  half-memories — to 
reconstruct  these  incidents.  .  .  .  But  these  reveries  were 
devastating.  They  always  left  her  utterly  tired. 

Something  she  must  do,  something  active.  With  no  way 
to  turn  she  must  make  a  way.  That  was  what  Jim  Cantey 
would  have  done.  So  often  he  had  told  her  the  stories 
of  this  and  that  business  fight,  of  the  ugly  years  when  he 
had  struggled  in  the  dark,  without  any  particular  hope,  just 
fighting  on.  It  seemed  now  like  a  heritage,  his  best  heritage 
to  her,  better  than  money. 

Her  spirit  was  picking  up  a  little  now.  There  was  one 
effort  she  had  never  made.  Perhaps  it  was  her  way  out. 
She  might  write  the  biography  herself.  It  was  doubtless 
an  absurd  thought.  But  she  must  do  something.  She 
could  try. 

She  got  up  again.    Found  paper  and  pencil. 

For  an  hour  she  wrestled  with  the  wholly  unfamiliar 
problem  of  planning  a  book.  She  didn't  know  how  or  where 
to  begin. 

A  nervous  fear  of  Oswald  Quakers  rose  in  her  mind. 
She  knew  he  was  quiet  but  strong.  He  was  one  of  them. 
She  sensed  him  as  silently  spinning  a  web  from  which  it 


294  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

might  not  be  easy  for  her  to  escape.  This  subtle  sugges- 
tion of  a  new  Trust  for  the  Estate,  what  could  it  mean? 
And  why  all  this  indirection?  He  had  never  appeared  in 
matters  relating  to  the  Estate,  yet  they  took  Henry  Cal- 
verly  to  his  house  that  night.  Why  ?  .  .  .  And  here  he 
was,  dropping  curiously  disturbing  suggestions  1 

For  a  time,  during  the  second  hour,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
if  she  worked  very  rapidly  on  the  book  she  might  build  a 
way  out.  It  was  absurd,  of  course!  She  couldn't  write  a 
substantial  work  of  biography  before  her  birthday.  Peo- 
ple took  years  for  such  tasks.  Yet  time  seemed  to  press, 
desperately.  She  tried  jotting  down  such  rough  notes  as 
came  to  her. 

Esther's  familiar  step  sounded  in  the  hall.  There  was  a 
tap  at  the  door. 

Miriam  called  out — she  couldn't  help  speaking  coldly — 
that  she  preferred  not  to  be  disturbed. 

Later,  quite  late  in  the  morning,  in  fact,  Miss  Russell 
slipped  down  the  hall  and  opened  the  door. 

Miriam  started;  looked  up.  She  had  heard  no  sound. 
The  strong  box  was  beside  her  on  the  bed ;  all  about  were 
scattered  note-books,  documents,  manila  folders  full  of 
papers.  Miss  Russell's  eyes  took  it  all  in.  Could  she,  too, 
be  one  of  them?  That  thought  had  not  before  taken  shape 
in  her  mind ;  it  had  come  up  only  as  a  rather  irritating  lit- 
tle suspicion,  to  be  put  down  promptly  on  the  sensible 
ground  that  the  nurse  hardly  mattered.  She  tried  to  put 
it  down  as  promptly  and  sensibly  now.  But  Miss  Russell 
shouldn't  now  be  standing,  motionless,  intently  looking,  in 
the  doorway.  It  was  slightly  but  strikingly  out  of  charac- 
ter. She  should  be  coming  briskly  in;  or  else  she  should 
have  spoken  at  once. 

Finally  she  did  speak ;  quite  naturally. 

"Are  you  planning  to  go  out,  Miss  Cantey?" 

"No,  I  hardly  think  I  shall  get  up  before  this  afternoon. 
J  will  ring  if  I  want  you." 

Miriam's  own  eyes  were  more  intent  than  she  knew.  They 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  295 

were  fixed  on  Miss  Russell  until  she  had  backed  clear  out 
and  softly  closed  the  door. 

She  relaxed  then.  A  slight  nervous  shiver  passed  through 
her.  She  closed  her  eyes  a  moment,  then  slowly  opened 
them. 

"I've  got  to  get  control  of  this  thing,"  she  thought.  "It's 
this  feeling  of  hostility  all  about  me  that's  so  unsettling, 
of  course.  I'll  be  getting  positively  morbid  about  it.  It's 
nothing  to  what  father  faced  all  his  life.  I've  got  to  face 
this  thing,  that's  all.  I  will  face  it." 

Again  it  seemed  that  the  best  way  to  face  it  was  to  work 
on  the  biography. 

But  that  was  a  large  task.  And  she  had  made  but  an 
exceedingly  small  beginning.  She  read  her  few  notes  over 
now,  and  promptly  tore  them  up.  Tore  them  into  very  small 
pieces.  Writing  a  book  was  tardly  a  matter  to  be  under- 
taken on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  It  called  for  a  trained 
mind,  long  practice,  great  skill ;  for  a  rich  mental  back- 
ground and  a  full-bodied  philosophy  of  life. 

She  was  beginning  to  wonder  if  she  had  any  philosophy. 
She  had  had  memories  of  her  father,  and  now  there  were 
these  new  mad  memories  of  Henry ;  but  both  her  father  and 
Henry  had  been  taken  from  her.  What  was  left?  She  was 
quite  discouraged  now. 

Her  mental  picture  of  Henry  was  unexpectedly  growing 
clearer.  She  saw  him,  almost  as  she  had  seen  him  on  the 
first  day,  when  he  walked  the  library  floor  and  talked  the 
biography  of  truth.  She  felt  again  the  change  in  him  from 
dogged,  sensitive  timidity  to  flashing  force. 

Stronger  and  stronger  grew  the  vivid  sense  of  him.  She 
couJdn't  resist  it.  Often,  since  that  painful  night  at  home, 
this  awareness  of  him  had  come  upon  her.  She  had  fought 
it.  Then,  as  to-day,  when  it  was  no  longer  with  her,  she  had 
groped  miserably  to  find  it  again.  She  knew  now  that  the 
passing  of  it  would  leave  her  tired  and  very  unhappy.  It  was 
not  unlike  a  sort  of  drunkenness.  She  re-experienced  that 
first  magic  moment  in  his  arms ;  she  felt  again  his  beautiful, 


296  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

hesitant  awkwardness  about  carrying  her  back  to  her  chair. 
And  the  other  moments.  .  .  . 

Satraps  of  the  Simple  was  in  her  trunk.  She  got  it 
out;  turned  the  pages,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed;  felt 
again  the  thrill  of  his  crisp,  vital  sentences. 

She  couldn't  have  been  wholly  mistaken  in  him!  He  had 
this  fine  quality !  Here  it  was  again,  in  his  book ! 

At  least  she  was  growing  stronger.  It  was  a  dishearten- 
ingly  slow  process ;  almost  better  to  stay  frankly  an  invalid 
than  to  struggle  like  this. 

But  Jim  Cantey  had  struggled,  for  years  on  end.  He 
had  never  been  afraid.  Over  and  over  again  he  had  risked 
everything.  He  didn't  care  if  they  killed  him;  he  only  cared 
if  he  failed.  And  he  never  failed  for  long.  He  never  lost 
ground  that  he  didn't  sooner  or  later  win  back. 

She  decided,  abruptly,  to  dress.  Alone,  for  once.  She 
didn't  want  Miss  Russell  in  the  room. 

She  put  all  the  books  and  papers  loosely  in  the  box,  and 
replaced  that  in  the  trunk.  She  started  to  lock  the  box,  but 
hesitated.  For  the  first  time  she  was  a  little  afraid  of  her 
own  suspicions.  She  had  seen  suspicious  old  women;  they 
•were  dreadful.  It  was  absurd  to  brood  over  that  look  on 
Miss  Russell's  face.  It  bordered  on  the  morbid.  Miss 
Russell,  after  these  two  years  of  patient  care,  wasn't  going 
to  turn  into  a  sneakthief.  Esther  might  eat  too  many  choc- 
olates between  meals,  but  she  had  hardly  been  caught 
prying  into  other  people's  papers.  Nor  had  heavy-footed 
Will.  And  Oswald  Quakers  wasn't  coming  in  with  a 
jimmy.  She  left  it  unlocked. 

She  dressed,  then,  laboriously ;  and,  cane  in  hand,  moved 
as  quietly  as  she  could  out  through  the  side  door  to  the 
garden.  She  met  no  one.  Esther  was  out,  doubtless. 

She  let  herself  down  on  a  bench.  The  old  fear  that  she 
might  overdo  arose,  only  to  be  put  down  with  a  new  cour- 
age, a  courage  in  kind  like  Jim  Cantey's.  "What  earthly 
difference  does  it  make?"  she  mused.  "I  was  of  no  use 
•whatever  the  old  way.  It  would  be  better  to  die.  But  I 
shan't  die.  Not  just  yet.  I'll  try  living." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  297 

She  saw  now  clearly  what  a  factor  the  mind  had  been  in 
her  long  illness.  Doctor  Wells,  very  gently,  had  hinted  at 
that.  She  remembered  sitting  by  a  window,  watching  the 
people  walking  by  in  the  street  without  having  in  herself  the 
faintest  memory  of  walking  or  the  faintest  desire  to  walk. 
The  thought  that  lies  back  of  walking  had  gone  from  her. 
And  they  had  coddled  her,  kept  her  down.  She  didn't 
resent  her  father's  devoted  care ;  she  understood  that.  Still 
even  he  had  kept  her  down.  There  had  been  baths,  electric 
treatments,  massages,  but  no  healthy  natural  exercise.  Her 
father's  fearful  care  of  her  had  dominated  the  minds  of  all 
about.  Once  an  eminent  consultant  had  suggested  that 
perhaps  she  had  suffered  no  lasting  injury.  She  overheard 
that,  was  fired  by  it,  and  tried,  during  one  excited  moment, 
to  walk  alone.  The  painful  results  of  that  effort  had  driven 
Jim  Cantey  nearly  frantic.  And  she  had  sunk  back  into 
invalidism. 

Doctor  Wells'  suggestion  that  she  watch  people  walk- 
ing, even  running  children,  and  put  her  mind  on  the  physical 
process,  had  proved  curiously  stimulating.  She  was  doing 
that  every  day;  quietly  following  the  movements  of  Miss 
Russell,  Esther,  Will. 

Her  mind  dwelt  a  little  on  these  two  last.  She  was 
utterly  puzzled  about  them.  They  could  have  had  no  deeply 
ulterior  motive  in  dragging  her  out  here.  They  were  taking 
great  trouble  on  her  account.  She  had  been  upset,  un- 
questionably, had  been  put  in  a  dreadful  position,  and  they 
had  taken  hold.  Their  judgment  might  be  questioned,  as 
their  tact  might  be.  But  then  neither  had  ever  possessed 
tact.  And  she  was  getting  stronger;  to  that  extent  they 
had  been  proved  right.  Toward  the  matter  in  her  own 
thoughts,  she  had  no  consistent  attitude.  The  merest 
thought  of  Henry  could  still  stir  that  divine  madness  in 
her  soul.  She  couldn't  speak  of  it.  She  could  hardly 
face  it  herself,  as  a  fact.  She  certainly  couldn't,  in  the 
difficult  circumstances,  justify  it.  She  could  only  watch, 
with  an  increasing  nervous  tension,  for  a  letter.  No  letter 
came.  And  that  fact,  in  itself,  might  be  thought.  . 


298  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

She  closed  her  eyes  on  this.  It  was  the  old  intense  cir- 
cular thinking.  She  knew  she  mustn't  indulge  in  it. 

One  thing  was  certain :  until  she  could  be  sure  of  herself 
she  had  no  right  to  judge  Esther  and  Will.  Meantime  she 
must  fight  the  hostile  feelings  that  came  and  came. 

She  raised  her  eyes;  let  them  rest,  hardly  seeing,  on  a 
window ;  then  knit  her  brows  and  looked  more  closely. 

Unmistakably  the  curtain  moved.  Unmistakably  it  was 
Miss  Russell's  face  that  drew  back  into  the  shadows. 

Their  eyes  hadn't  met.  Miss  Russell  couldn't  know  that 
she  had  been  seen.  For  in  that  event  she  would  have  come 
rieht  out.  Minutes  passed  and  she  didn't  come  out. 

This  was  odd.  A  little  thing,  but  odd.  It  was  somehow 
vrrong;  it  felt  wrong. 

As  she  sat  there,  trying  to  think  it  out,  the  suspicions 
came  running  back  among  her  thoughts.  She  fought  them 
back.  They  were  silly. 

She  got  up.  She  felt  quite  indifferent  to  weariness  or 
pain.  She  was  weak,  of  course.  It  would  have  been  wi-er 
to  eat  a  little  breakfast.  Physical  strength — you  have  to 
have  that!  Without  it,  without  building  it,  you  couldn't 
have,  or  hold,  mental  strength.  Jim  Cantey  had  been  strong, 
strong.  Still,  in  a  way,  right  now,  she  literally  didn't  care. 
She  went  into  the  house.  She  had  not  since  her  girlhood 
walked  so  rapidly  or  so  straight. 

As  she  came  into  the  hall  from  the  side  door  Miss  "Rus* 
sell  was  just  opening  Esther's  door.  She  carried  something 
— a  box — the  strong  box!  She  passed  in  and  closed  the 
door  after  her. 

Miriam  went  straight  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

M iss  Russell  was  moving  Esther's  box  of  chocolates  from 
the  table  by  the  couch  to  make  room  for  the  box.  Esther 
lay  on  the  couch,  in  her  usual  negligee  costume.  They  both 
started  and  looked  up. 

Miriam  stood  there,  looking  firmly  at  them  out  of  blazing 
eyes.  For  the  moment  all  three  were  silent.  Miriam  was 
animated  now  only  by  an  honest,  whole-souled  anger.  It 
•was  the  Cantey  temper.  It  was  the  spirit  that  had 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  299 

moved  Jim  Cantey  when  he  pitched  one  Harkwright  through 
the  plate-glass  front  of  the  post-office. 

''Miss  Russell,"  she  said  very  quietly,  "bring  that  box 
over  here." 

"I'll  take  it  back  to  your  room,  Miss  Cantey." 

"You'll  do  exactly  as  I  tell  you!    Come  over  here." 

There  was  a  small  table  near  the  door  on  which  stood  the 
telephone  instrument.  Beside  it  was  a  chair.  Miriam 
sat  here. 

"Let  me  have  the  box  please." 

She  glanced  into  it.  The  papers  were  just  as  she  had  left 
them.  She  had  come  in  time.  She  locked  it  now. 

Miss  Russell  was  edging  toward  the  door. 

Miriam  said,  in  that  same  ominously  quiet  voice: 

"Stand  where  you  are,  Miss  Russell." 

Esther  here  spoke  for  the  first  time.  "Miriam,  really" — • 
she  cleared  her  throat — "if  you'll  just  be — " 

"Please!"  Miriam  broke  in.    "Don't  speak  to  me!" 

She  found  the  telephone  book;  deliberately  looked  up  a 
number ;  called  for  it. 

"Is  Doctor  Wells  there?"  she  asked.  Then,  "Oh,  good 
morning,  Doctor!  Could  you  come  over  here  right  away? 
.  .  .  Yes,  please!  .  .  .  Thank  you.  Oh,  I'm  ever 
so  much  better." 

"Now,  Miss  Russell,"  she  said,  "please  bring  the  box  to 
my  room." 

"Miriam,"  said  Esther,  speaking  up  again,  "you  really 
must  not  overdo  like — " 

"It  will  be  easier  if  you  won't  try  to  speak  with  me." 

In  the  doorway,  Miss  Russell,  solicitous,  took  Miriam's 
arm,  but  was  shaken  off  with  surprising  vigor. 

The  box  was  replaced  in  the  trunk. 

Miss  Russell  asked,  in  a  husky  voice,  if  Miss  Cantey 
wished  to  lie  down. 

"I  wish  nothing  whatever  from  you,"  said  Miss  Cantey, 
"except  to  pack  your  things  and  go.  You  should  be  able  to 
get  out  of  the  house  in  twenty  minutes  to  half  an  hour." 


300  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"But  Miss  Cantey— " 

"\Ve  will  say  twenty  minutes.  You'd  better  be  about  it 
I  will  pay  your  fare  back." 

Esther  heard  her,  a  quarter-hour  later,  telephoning  for 
an  expressman.  There  were  hot  whispered  words.  Esther, 
quite  beyond  herself,  called  Miss  Russell  an  indiscreet  fool. 
.Miss  Russell,  flushed  with  rage,  talked  back.  Esther  gave 
her  a  final  payment  of  all  she  had  in  her  pocketbook ;  then, 
hesitating  a  good  deal,  trying  to  construct  a  mental  attitude 
that  would  hold  together  and  not  succeeding,  went  to 
Miriam's  door,  tapped  softly,  opened  it  a  little  way. 

Miriam  was  sitting  in  an  armchair. 

"I  really  wish  you'd  lie  down,  dear"— thus  Esther. 
"You've  been  through  a  trying  exj>erienee  and  I'm  sure — " 

"Please!" 

"But,  my  dear  girl,  you  surely  can't  hold  me  responsible 
for  that  woman's  acts !" 

"I  can  and  I  do,  Esther." 

"But,  Miriam,  that  is  utterly  unreasonable.  You're  not 
yourself." 

"I  am,  thank  God,  at  last !" 

"I  must  say,"  Esther  muttered,  wavering  in  the  doorway, 
"things  have  come  to  a  pretty  pass  .  .  .  ." 

"Evidently  they  have." 

Doctor  Wells'  voice  came  down  the  hall  from  the  front 
door.  It  was  a  strong  likable  voice.  Miriam  stood  irresolute. 
Finally,  without  a  plan,  she  moved  a  few  steps  into  the  room. 

The  physician  glanced  keenly  at  her,  then  at  his  patient. 

"Well,"  he  remarked,  "this  looks  good.  You're  sitting 
tip  like  anybody." 

"Doctor  Wells,"  said  Miriam  firmly,  "an  unexpected  situ- 
ation has  come  up.  I'm  going  home,  to-day  if  possible.  To 
my  own  house.  I've  discharged  Miss  Russell.  I  shall  want 
somebody,  for  a  little  longer,  anyway." 

"Yes,  you'd  better  have  somebody."  The  physician's  face 
was  gravely  expressionless.  "Perhaps  more  of  a  companion 
than  a  nurse.  I  think  I  have  the  woman.  But  to-day  is 
rather  short  notice.  Still  " 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  301 

"I  really  don't  want  to  sleep  again  in  this  house.  I  was 
going  to  ask  you,  too,  if  you  could  make  the  journey  with 
me." 

Doctor  Wells  thought  for  a  moment.  He  was,  like  his 
patient,  quite  ignoring  Esther,  who  stood  by  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  deeply  uncomfortable,  looking  covertly  from  one  to 
the  other.  Finally  he  replied: 

"I'll  do  it." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad,  Doctor!" 

"There's  a  train  at  the  end  of  the  afternoon.  I'll  go  now 
and  see  if  I  can't  bring  Miss  Bryce  right  back  with  me.  She 
can  pack  for  you." 

He  stepped  forward  then,  thoughtfully  considering  the 
rather  high  color  that  was  throbbing  under  her  delicate 
skin.  He  shook  his  thermometer  and  thrust  it  under  her 
tongue ;  then  felt  her  pulse. 

Esther,  beyond  words,  hopelessly  unable  now  to  get  hold 
of  her  scattered  faculties,  unable  even  to  leave  the  room, 
aware  of  nothing  but  a  growing  sense  of  outraged  pride, 
of  injury,  looked  miserably  at  the  slim  erect  figure  with 
the  glowing  hair  and  great  blue  Cantey  eyes,  and  the  ther- 
mometer projecting  from  the  sensitive  mouth. 

Doctor  Wells  replaced  the  thermometer  in  its  case. 

"Miss  Cantey,"  he  said,  "you  are  going  to  get  well." 

Miriam's  face  twisted  into  a  wistful,  fleeting  smile. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  musingly.  "I  hardly  seem  to 
care.  All  I  know  is,  I'm  never  going  on  like  that  any  more, 
just  being  an  invalid." 

"That's  it,"  said  the  doctor— "the  fighting  spirit." 

"Father  had  it." 

"Yes.    We  know  that,  here  in  California." 

"lie  used  to  say  that  he'd  rather  be  a  dead  lion  than  a 
living  dog.  I'm  afraid  I've  been  just  that — for  years — a 
living  dog." 

Then,  before  he  could  break  in  reassuringly,  she  threw  out 
her  slender  arms. 

"But  not  any  more!"  she  cried  softly,  as  if  to  herself. 
"It's  got  to  be  the  fighting  spirit  now !" 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FOUR 

Of  the  Curious  Relationship  Between  Perfect  Porcelain 
and  the  Divine  Fire 

THE  night  of  Calverly's  stirring  talk  with  Mr.   Ilitt 
proved  eventful. 

It  must  have  been  one  in  the  morning  when  he  wrung 
the  hand  of  the  older  man  and  let  himself  into  the  boarding- 
house  on  the  Hill.  He  closed  the  door  behind  him  and  then 
stood  motionless,  looking  about  at  the  dim  front  hall  and 
peering  into  the  dark  parlor.  He  felt  like  an  intruder.  He 
was  living  here ;  no  question  about  that !  But  it  wasn't 
•where  he  belonged.  The  gas-jet  was  down  to  a  bead  within 
its  glass  globe ;  but  he  could  see  the  polished  floor,  the  rugs, 
table,  hatrack,  chairs,  and  the  long  stairway  with  its  walnut 
balustrade.  It  was  a  comfortable  enough  place.  The  rooms 
were  neatly  kept ;  the  food  pretty  good.  But  it  wasn't  where 
he  belonged. 

He  pressed  a  tense  hand  to  his  eyes.  That  was  an  ex- 
traordinary remark  of  old  Hittie's:  "So  long  as  there's 
paper  and  pencil  in  the  world,  or  birch  bark  and  charcoal, 
or  ink,  or  blood,  they  can't  kill  a  writer.  .  .  ." 

A  letter  and  a  telegram  lay  on  the  table.  He  held  them 
to  the  light;  both  were  for  him.  He  stuffed  them  into  a 
pocket. 

He  tiptoed  up  the  stairway,  and  on  up.  Through  open 
transoms  came  rhythmical  breathing  with  here  and  there  a 
snore.  Two  score  human  beings  lived  with  him  in  this 
house,  ate  and  slept  within  these  four  walls,  but  all  were 
strangers. 

Softly,  slowly,  he  opened  and  closed  the  door  of  his  room ; 
struck  a  match  and  lighted  the  gas.  The  next  thing,  it  ap- 
peared, was  to  go  to  bed.  He  took  off  coat  and  collar, 
slowly,  moodily,  thinking,  or  rather  feeling  swiftly  out  into 

302 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  303 

that  twinkling  spaciousness  where  wild  high  thoughts  range 
unfettered  by  the  arithmetic  of  earth.  The  "power"  of  his 
youthful  triumphs  was  on  him  again,  lifting  him,  swinging 
him  out  there  where  dwell  the  gods. 

On  a  table,  under  the  light,  lay  a  scattered  heap  of  papers, 
notes,  scrawlings ;  the  quaint  diagrams  he  often  plotted  out 
while  thinking.  He  picked  up  a  few  of  the  sheets;  looked 
them  over. 

"Pittsburgh  alone  is  a  greater  epic  than  all  of  Homer." 
Mr.  Hitt  had  said  that.  And  he  had  painted  a  word-picture 
of  the  blast  furnaces  at  night,  from  a  car  window. 

Advertising!  .  .  .  He  fingered  these  sheets,  all  scrawled 
with  his  own  writing.  The  business  struggle  ...  the  great 
rough  romance  of  America! 

He  drew  up  the  little  straight-backed,  cane-seated  chair, 
and  sharpened  a  pencil.  The  words,  PERFECT  PORCE- 
LAIN, took  shape  in  his  mind's  eye.  He  could  see  them, 
all  at  once,  vividly,  on  a  printed  page.  And  other  words 
came,  all  as  part  of  that  clear  mental  picture.  He  wrote 
them  out  .  .  .  Hoknes  Hitt,  he  thought  now,  was  right; 
the  porcelain  makers  were  heart  and  soul  in  the  struggle  of 
life.  They  were  giving  their  best.  He  felt  them,  with  a 
thrill  of  kindling  power.  He  felt,  too,  the  women  in  those 
six  thousand  homes. 

At  three  o'clock  of  the  following  afternoon  he  appeared  at 
the  offices  of  Holmes  Hitt,  Inc.,  and  patiently  made  his  way, 
with  one  or  two  long  waits,  to  the  corner  room  where  the 
paintings  were. 

Young  Hitt  was  in  blue  to-day.  He  found  himself  re- 
ceiving a  baggy,  wrinkled,  even  (to  stake  all  on  truth)  a 
slightly  unwashed  young  man,  blazing  eyes  in  a  haggard 
face.  Those  eyes  touched  and  stirred  him.  The  extraor- 
dinary Calverly  hadn't  before  exhibited  this  rather  thrilling 
quality.  It  would  be  in  him,  of  course;  else  whence  had 
come  Satraps  of  the  Simple,  even  the  delicious  interview 
with  Mayor  Tim  that  had  (Holmes  Hit  happened  to  know) 
raised  hell  in  the  News  office  and  sent  Frank  Winterbeck 
into  exile.  Frank  was  working  on  a  Cincinnati  paper  now. 


3(H  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

A  good  fellow,  Frank,  and  a  really  good  newspaper  man. 
Had  character.  Listerly  would  have  had  to  get  rid  of  him 
anyway,  sooner  or  later.  For  character  can  be  an  uncom- 
fortable bedfellow.  There  was  hardly  place  for  it  in  Lis- 
terly's  organization. 

"First,"  said  Calverly,  with  a  slight  husky  weariness  of 
voice  that  contrasted  oddly  with  the  fire  in  his  eyes ;  and 
the  shrewdly  observant  Holmes  Hitt,  taking  him  all  in, 
asked  himself  what  was  to  come  second  .  .  .  "First,  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  show  you  these." 

He  was  sitting,  this  amusing  Calverly  person,  on  the  edge 
of  the  mahogany  chair,  stiffly,  knees  together,  hands  clasped 
on  them  (after  handing  over  a  little  bundle  of  papers),  a 
purposeless,  almost  limp  figure,  until  you  looked  again  at 
the  eyes. 

One  odd  fact  Holmes  Hitt  noted  as  he  turned  to  the 
papers.  From  this  strange  being  he  looked  only  for  dis- 
order, yet  the  very  top  paper  was  extraordinarily  neat. 

Calverly  had  drawn,  with  a  ruler,  a  rectangle  which  the 
practised  eyes  of  Holmes  Hitt  recognized  as  "double-column 
width."  At  the  top  he  had  printed  out.  painstakingly,  rather 
prettily,  the  simple  phrase,  SELF  RESPECT.  At  the  bot- 
tom, same  size,  was  that  other  phrase,  PERFECT  POR- 
CELAIN. Between,  in  a  fine  clear  hand,  was  a  little  block 
of  text  with  wide  white  margins  around  it. 

Holmes  Hitt  laid  this  sheet  aside.  The  second  looked 
exactly  like  it,  except  for  an  evident  divergence  in  the  text. 
So  with  the  third,  fourth,  fifth  and  sixth  ...  He  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  pursed  his  lips,  and  surveyed  the  paint- 
ings on  the  farthest  wall. 

Calverly,  a  little  disconcerted,  began  mumbling.  Some- 
thing about  the  thing  being  no  good,  of  course ;  he  realized 
it  wasn't  his  game :  just  a  sort  of  feeble  try  at  it ;  probably 
they'd  want  something  more  striking,  snappier,  but  out  there 
at  the  factory  and  in  the  offices  he'd  been  so  struck  by  the 
dignity  of  those  men  .  .  . 

Holmes  Hitt  motioned  him  to  be  quiet.  Sat  there,  quite 
motionless,  thinking. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  305 

Finally  he  came  back  to  earth,  and  turned  to  Calverly, 
calmly. 

"This  is  it,"  he  said.    "It's  what  we'll  use." 

"But — but — you  haven't  read  them!" 

"No.  Do  that  later.  I'm  wondering  a  little  if  you  realize 
;what  you've  done  here." 

"Well,  of  course,  the  things  you  said,  and  the  factory — 

"Probably  you  don't.  No  matter.  You've  got  it.  I  will 
tie  up  those  two  phrases  so  tight  that  two  years  from  now 
no  one  in  America  will  be  able  to  think  of  the  words  'self 
respect'  without  thinking  at  the  same  time  of  Perfect 
Porcelain." 

Calverly  threw  out  a  hand  in  a  listless  gesture. 

The  corners  of  Holmes  Hitt's  mouth  curved  slightly 
upward. 

"This  is  it,"  he  said  again.  Then:  "There  was  some- 
thing else  ?" 

"Oh,  yes !"  Calverly  started  a  little.  "I— I've  had  a  rather 
curious  experience.  You  know  how  it  is  when  something 
happens  that  stirs  you  up  and  you  sort  of  find  yourself — 
you  know,  when  ideas  begin  to  come  and  you  know  you 
can  do  things — " 

Holmes  Hitt,  watching  him,  slowly  nodded. 

" — Well,  I  haven't  felt  that  way  for  years — oh,  just  a 
little  once  or  twice  lately — my  life's  been  rather  depressing, 
and  for  years  I  couldn't  write  except  by  pounding  it  out, 
and  then  it  wasn't  any  good — what  they  call  nervous  pros- 
tration, I  must  have  had  ..." 

He  appeared  to  be  lost  in  a  jungle  of  words.  He  stopped, 
collected  himself,  and  plunged  at  it,  whatever  it  was,  from 
another  side. 

"I  really  came  here  to  thank  you.  I'm  sure  you  don't 
know  how  you've  helped  me.  I  mean  made  me  feel  the 
dignity  of  business  and  the  human  quality  that  underlies  it. 
The  beauty  in  it.  Of  course,  when  you  come  to  look  straight 
at  it,  all  this  activity  that  we  call  business  is  nothing  on 
earth  but  the  human  struggle  itself." 

"Of  course,"  observed  Holmes  Hitt. 


306  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"You've  helped  me  to  see  that  clearly  .  .  .  your  point  of 
view  ...  I  want  to  thank  you.  And  I've  got  to  give 
this  up."  He  waved  at  the  papers.  "I'm  in  the  fight  again. 
For  myself.  I  didn't  know  how  you'd  feel  about  my  quitting 
you  so  soon — " 

"You're  quirting  me?" 

Calverly  threw  out  both  hands.  "I've  got  to !  Don't  you 
see?  It's  a  book.  I'm  all  torn  up  with  it.  Even  if  it  isn't 
fair  to  you,  I  can't  help  it.  I  don't  know  as — if  you  feel  that 
I  haven't  earned  this  week's  pay — " 

"You've  earned  it,"  said  Holmes  Hitt  shortly.  "What's 
the  new  book  ?  A  novel  ?" 

"Why  no,  not  exactly.  Though  maybe,  in  a  way.  It's 
about  a  man  like  Jim  Cantey,  and  the  development  of  the 
West — you  know,  the  romance  and  drama,  the  fighting,  and 
the  rich  color  of  it.  You  don't  know  what  it  means  to  me, 
just  to  feel  like  this.  I'm  a  little  short  of  sleep.  But  there's 
always  that  fear  that  the  thing'll  slip  away  from  you  if  you 
leave  it  for  a  minute.  I  must  get  back." 

He  rose. 

"Wait  a  minute !"  said  Holmes  Hitt.  "How  about  money? 
Are  the  lawyers  advancing  you  some  ?" 

"Lawyers?" 

"Yes.    The  Watt  estate." 

Calverly's  lips  pressed  together.  A  look  of  pain  crept  into 
rm  eyes.  He  shook  his  head.  "I  have  an  old  friend  in  New 
York.  He'll  help  me." 

"But  they  ought  to  look  out  for  you." 

"Please  don't  talk  about  that.    I  won't  touch  that  money." 

"But  isn't  that  rather  Quixotic?" 

Calverly  was  not  ordinarily  a  profane  man.  But  his 
nerves  were  strung  tight  this  day.  And  every  one,  every- 
where, would,  he  knew,  mention  that  dirty  money. 

"I  dont  care  a  damn  what  it  is!"  he  shouted,  with  an 
abruptness  and  vigor  that  made  the  usually  imperturbable 
Holmes  Hitt  start  a  little  and  then  smile. 

"If  your  friend  fail?  to  come  through,  let  me  know,"  he 
replied,  turning  back  to  the  papers. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  307 

"Oh,"  said  Calverly,  "thank  you !"  And  started  for  the 
door. 

"By  the  way,  Margie  Daw,  of  the  Neii\s,  just  called  up. 
Wants  to  see  you.  Says  it's  important." 

Calverly  stood  motionless,  then  moved  his  lips  inarticu- 
lately, then  reached  for  the  door. 

"Just  one  word.  You're  in  for  a  hounding,  Calverly.  No 
possible  escape.  Don't  make  the  fatal  mistake  of  talking  at 
the  newspaper  people  as  you  talked  at  me  just  now.  Keep 
your  shirt  on.  Smile  if  you  can  .  .  .  Good  luck!" 

Calverly  stood  at  the  curb,  looking  out  at  the  street  traffic 
and  at  the  trees  of  Cantey  Square  just  beyond.  Holmes 
Hitt's  advice  was  sound,  of  course.  But  how  was  he  to 
follow  it,  with  a  world  of  tumult  in  his  breast ! 

He  crossed  the  street,  and  turned  idly  in  at  the  corner 
drug  store  just  below  the  Neu's  building. 

What  could  Margie  Daw  be  wanting  now?  He  wasn't 
afraid  of  her.  Not  now.  In  a  wonderful,  almost  terrible 
way  he  was  riding  the  world. 

He  sat  on  a  stool  and  ordered  an  ice-cream  soda. 

While  he  was  eating  it,  Margie  appeared,  coming  from  the 
telephone  booths  in  the  rear  of  the  store.  In  her  little  soft 
hat,  her  trim  tailored  suit  with  its  boyish  pockets,  her  stiff 
boy's  collar  and  "four-in-hand"  tie,  she  looked  as  fresh  and 
girlish  as  when  he  had  first  seen  her. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  slipping  in  on  the  stool  next  to  his,  "you're 
here !  I  just  called  up  again."  And  when  the  aproned  dis- 
penser of  sweet  fluids  and  solids  had  moved  a  little  way 
along  the  fountain,  she  shot  in  this  low-voiced  remark : 

"Your  lawyer's  expected  here  by  evening.  He's  reserved 
a  room  at  the  Cantey  Square.  The  clerk  told  me." 

"I  haven't  any  lawyer,"  Calverly  mumbled. 

"Madame  Watt's  lawyer,  then.    Name  of  Parker." 

"Oh!"  was  all  he  could  say.  He  wished  she  would  leave 
him  alone.  The  creative  glow  was  still  red  within  him.  lie 
didn't  know  what  he  might  say,  under  pressure. 

"Come  out  with  me,"  she  said,  under  her  breath.    "I've 

t  to  say  a  few  things." 


308  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

They  sat  on  a  bench  in  Cantey  Square. 

"You  saw  the  story  the  other  day — in  the  afternoon 
papers — " 

He  moved  his  head  quickly  in  the  negative.  She  had 
never  seen  him  so  nervous;  or,  at  least,  so  oddly  self- 
absorbed. 

"You  must  have  shouted  at  the  reporters." 

He  glanced  up;  then  down. 

''You  swore  you  wouldn't  take  the  money." 

"I  won't." 

''What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?" 

"Nothing.    It's  nothing  to  me." 

"You  can't  give  it  to  the  lawyers.  The  court  won't  let 
you." 

He  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"You'll  have  to  do  something,  of  course." 

"No." 

"You'll  have  to." 

"Why?" 

"There  it  is.  All  that  money.  Yours  by  law.  You  can 
take  it.  You  can  give  it  away.  You  can't  ignore  it." 

"Then  I'll  give  it  away." 

She  sat  quiet,  considering  this. 

"Henry,"  she  cried  softly,  "will  you?" 

He  bowed. 

"You'll  have  to  really  do  it,  of  course.  Give  thought: 
to  it." 

He  stirred. 

"You'll  have  to !    It's  a  responsibility  you  can't  evade." 

"I  have  a  friend  that  understands  all  those  things. 
Humphrey  Weaver.  You  don't  know  him.  He'll  help  me." 

His  pulse  quickened  as  he  thought  of  the  man,  spoke  his 
name.  He  had  asked  Humphrey,  by  wire,  for  a  hundred 
dollars.  It  had  suddenly  been  easy  to  do,  the  natural  thing. 
It  had  been  wholly  an  impulsive  act.  He  didn't  know  that 
it  was  sound  finance,  borrowing  against  work,  against  pro- 
duction. He  knew  only  that  it  felt  natural  now.  There  was 
no  longer  a  gulf  between  them.  His  heart  warmed  toward 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  309 

his  old  friend.  He  wished  he  could  see  him,  tell  him  about 
the  new  book  .  .  .  There  was  a  live  thing,  that  book !  He 
felt  it  now,  pulling  at  mind,  heart,  nerves.  He  wanted  to  be 
back  writing  it.  Why  wouldn't  Margie  leave  him  alone! 
How  could  he  get  away  from  her? 

"Henry !"  Her  hand  was  on  his  arm.  She  was  excited, 
crisp,  quick.  "You've  suffered!" 

He  stared  at  her.  He  hadn't  before  found  understanding 
in  her;  not  like  this. 

"Give  that  money  to  the  poor  devils  that  have  felt  what 
you've  felt — prison — disgrace!  Establish  a  fund.  Yes, 
that's  it !  For  men  and  women  released  from  prison.  Help 
them  get  a  start,  get  back  on  their  feet." 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "I'd  love  to  do  that." 

She  could  see  that  it  wasn't  now,  had  never  been  real  to 
him,  this  actual  fortune.  But  her  idea  appealed  to  him. 

"You'll  do  it  ?"  she  asked,  watching  him  intently. 

"Yes,  of  course!" 

"That's  a  promise.  One  thing  more.  You  won't  tell 
any  one?  You'll  leave  it  in  my  hands — during  this  week." 

He  really  didn't  understand  this. 

"Promise  me  that.  I  don't  want  the  other  papers  to  have 
it.  They  mustn't." 

"Look  here,  Margie,"  he  said,  coming  momentarily  to 
life,  "for  God's  sake  don't  put  any  more  in  the  papers!" 

At  this  she  sprang  up.  Remembering  herself,  she  glanced 
discreetly  about ;  then,  a  hand  on  the  back  of  the  bench, 
casual  enough  in  manner,  but  with  a  thrilling  quality  in  her 
voice,  she  cried  softly : 

"In  the  papers!  God  love  you,  Henry  Calverly,  you  were 
born  to  page  one,  you'll  live  and  die  on  page  one !  The  one 
thing  we  can  do  is  to  put  you  right  instead  of  wrong.  Re- 
tnember,  you're  giving  the  money  as  I  say ;  and  remember, 
too,  it's  my  story !" 

Then  she  hurried  off. 

And  Calverly,  who  hadn't  caught  all  her  words  but  had 
caught  the  thrill  of  her  voice  and  answered  it  in  every 
tingling  nerve-end — all  feeling,  all  fire — rushed  away  to  hts 


310  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

boarding-house  on  the  Hill  and  plunged,  almost  happy  in  a 
wild  way,  at  the  book.  He  began  writing  the  moment  his 
pen  touched  the  paper,  wrote  straight  and  fast,  with  hardly 
a  correction  or  interlineation.  He  hadn't  planned  a  sentence 
of  it,  but  the  sentences — clear,  fluid,  firm — flowed  out  on 
the  paper  in  a  stream.  As  if  it  came  straight  down  from  the 
stars.  Now  and  then  he  would  stop,  read  back  a  little  way, 
and  laugh  aloud. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FIVE 

In    Which   Margie   Daw  Finds  Herself  Involved  in   the 
Greatest  Story 

MARGIE  paused  before  the  News  building.  Out- 
wardly she  was  her  usual  trim  self ;  but  in  her  heart 
she  knew  she  had  crossed  her  Rubicon.  Thoughts  of  Henry 
Calverly  filled  her  waking  and  sleeping  mind.  She  was 
helplessly  full  of  him.  She  had  known  no  other  man  like 
him.  He  was  so  elusive  as  utterly  to  fascinate  her;  a 
man  to  be  wooed  or  never  won.  She  knew  that  she  must 
capture  him  for  herself  or  face  life  on  some  new  plane  of 
interest ;  and  at  the  moment  she  was  finding  that  new  plane 
difficult  to  picture. 

Her  Rubicon  had  really  been  crossed  during  his  illness. 
She  had  lost  herself  then;  had  declared  herself,  or  tried  to. 
Her  little  outbreak  at  the  Rivoli  had  followed  inevitably. 
One  thing  she  had  learned ;  these  outbreaks  repelled  him. 
She  wouldn't  make  that  mistake  again. 

The  central  problem  of  such  a  life  as  Margie's  is  not 
simple.  She  was  by  nature  an  active,  independent  woman. 
The  home-building  instinct  was  not  in  her.  And  the  other, 
deeper,  related  instinct  that  guides  the  immense  majority  of 
girls  through  marriage  into  motherhood  had  never  yet 
stirred  in  her  breast.  Though  she  was  now,  without  formu- 
lating the  feeling  into  thought,  nearer  it  than  ever  before : 
nearer,  perhaps,  than  she  would  ever  be  again.  She  loved 
work.  She  had  much  of  the  artist's  feeling  for  life ;  at  least 
she  wasn't  after  money.  Freedom  was,  I  think,  essential  to 
her  spirit.  She  couldn't  work  in  chains,  even  in  the  chains 
of  love,  particularly  in  the  chains  of  domesticity.  This  fact 
added,  doubtless,  a  touch  of  confusing  bitterness  to  her  pres- 
ent intense  desire  to  possess  Henry,  envelope  him,  shut 
others  away  from  him. 

311 


312  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

Apparently  Margie's  various  emotional  experiences, 
though  not  altogether  happy,  had  touched  her  hardly  more 
deeply  than  certain  high-powered  types  of  men  are  touched 
by  similar  experiences.  Yet  behind  her  busy,  rather  cold 
brain,  and  confused  with  it,  lay  a  deep,  vital  emotional  qual- 
ity that  at  times  moved  strongly  toward  expression.  Though 
never  before  she  met  Henry  had  her  emotions  overrun  her 
mind.  Like  others  of  us,  whatever  our  occasional  excesses 
in  conduct  or  thought,  Margie  had  months  of  high  dream- 
which  her  various  experiments  in  the  region  of  the 
affections  had,  if  anything,  intensified.  It  was  to  this  side 
of  her  nature  that  Henry  appealed  with  such  bewildering 
strength.  What  it  came  doun  to,  she  knew,  was  that  she 
was  out-and-out  fighting  for  him. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  look  more  deeply  into  Margie's 
life,  perhaps  even  to  follow  her  career  after  she  went  down 
to  Xew  York.  She  was  one  of  the  more  interesting  of  the 
many  persons  who  played  a  part  in  Henry's  life  during  this, 
for  him,  critical  period.  Indeed  she  had  already  contributed 
more  to  the  stimulus  that  \vns  driving  his  long-slumbering 
genius  forward  and  upward  than  he  was  ever  to  know. 
From  their  first  meeting  there  had  been  between  them  an 
emotional  friction  that  had  through  his  very  resistance  to 
her,  brought  warmth  and  light  to  his  brain.  We  can  deal 
here  only  with  her  effect  on  him.  Margie  herself,  is,,  after 
all,  to  quote  from  that  other  precocious  genius  with  whose 
•work  the  earlier  Calverly  stories  were  so  often  compared, 
"another  story." 

•  One  fact  that  I  find  not  uninteresting  is  that  Margie, 
standing  there  before  the  News  building,  swiftly,  clearly 
thinking,  did  not  for  a  moment  allow  the  confused  state  of 
her  emotions  to  becloud  her  plans  for  the  evening's  work. 
It  came  down  to  a  matter  of  time.  She  decided  to  call  up 
her  friend  behind  the  desk  at  the  Cantey  Square  Hotel  and 
request  him  to  let  her  know  the  moment  Mr.  Parker  ar- 
rfved.  He  would  do  that  for  her.  She  wanted  to  see  Parker 
before  the  other  reporters  got  at  him.  She  could  work 
through  the  supper  hour  and  on  into  the  evening.  Unless 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  313 

Parker  had  already  come  in  on  the  afternoon  train,  he 
couldn't  arrive  now  until  nine-thirty.  Holmes  Hitt  also 
figured  in  her  plans,  but  she  could  catch  him  now,  before 
he  left  his  office. 

"I've  got  a  big  story,"  she  explained  to  Holmes  Hitt — • 
"about  Henry  Calverly.  You  won't  mind  helping  him?" 

"Not  at  all.    He's  an  extremely  interesting  person.'' 

"Yes,  I  know.  I'll  mention  you  in  the  story.  It's  proper 
enough.  He's  been  working  for  you  .  .  ,  He  won't 
take  that  money." 

"So  I've  gathered." 

"He's  just  promised  me  that  he'll  give  it — the  whole 
thing — to  help  put  unfortunate  jailbirds  on  their  feet." 

Holmes  Hitt  considered  this. 

"It's  a  big  thing,  you  see,"  she  went  on — "a  new  Calverly 
sensation.  Feature  stuff.  And  just  what  he  needs  to  put 
him  right." 

Holmes  Hitt  nodded. 

"I  could  sell  it  to  a  syndicate.  But  I  want  to  make  it 
bigger  than  that.  I  want  to  plaster  the  country  with  it. 
That's  where  you  come  in.  You  see  what  it  is — an  expert 
publicity  job." 

"Yes,  I  see." 

"If  we  do  it  right,  we  can  put  him  back  on  his  feet— ' 
overnight."  Margie  paused ;  then,  slowly,  her  eyes  drooped 
and  a  wave  of  warm  color  crept  over  her  clear  young  face. 

Holmes  Hitt  studied  her  calmly.  It  was  the  first  evidence 
of  human  feeling  he  had  happened  to  see  in  Margie  Daw. 
It  made  her  extraordinarily  attractive.  Calverly,  he  de- 
cided, was  rather  to  be  envied.  Though  likely  as  not  the 
boy  wouldn't  grasp  the  situation.  And  somebody'd  catch 
her  on  the  rebound.  He  wondered,  with  a  mild  quickening 
of  interest,  who. 

She  raised  her  eyes,  as  slowly.  During  a  brief,  illuminat- 
ing moment  they  met  his.  Her  color  deepened.  Then  her 
face  seemed  to  set  defiantly. 

"And  of  course" — this  rather  lamely,  as  she  rose  to  go— • 
"the  bigger  we  make  it  the  more  in  it  for  me." 


314  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"Naturally.    You'll  want  to  put  it  right  through." 

"Yes.    This  week." 

"Write  your  story,  and  we'll  sit  down  together  and  map 
out  a  campaign.  I'll  be  glad  to  help." 

Margie  opened  the  door  marked  "Features.  Miss  Daw" 
and  closed  it  behind  her.  Briskly,  all  business,  she  hung 
up  her  coat,  smoothed  her  "waist,"'  drew  up  to  her  type- 
writer, and  went  to  work. 

Shortly  the  telephone  rang.  It  was  her  friend  the  hotel 
clerk.  Mr.  Parker,  it  appeared,  was  already  in  town,  had 
doubtless  come  in  on  the  afternoon  train,  for  the  porter  had 
his  bags,  but  had  not  yet  registered. 

Margie  said :  "Listen !  I  must  see  him  before  any  other 
newspaper  people  get  at  him.  .  .  .  Yes,  really  impor- 
tant. To  him,  too  ...  I  do  mean  it !  I  don't  want  an 
interview.  No,  nothing  from  him,  nothing  whatever.  I'm 
not  asking  him,  I'm  telling  him  .  .  .  Don't  fail  me! 
Tell  him  I'm  a  nice  person  .  .  .  Well,  I  am.  .  .  . 
Oh  no,  he's  just  an  old  lawyer,  from  Chicago.  He's  not 
dangerous  .  .  .  What's  that?  You  are?  Yes,  I  know 
it.  ...  But  you  never  ask  me!  .  .  .  Certainly,  I 
will.  I'd  love  it.  Sunday's  my  slack  day.  I'll  tell  you — call 
me  up  at  home  Sunday  noon.  It's  in  the  book.  And  don't 
fail  me  to-night  with  the  Parker  man.  When  he  comes  in 
hide  him  quick  and  call  me  up.  I'm  counting  on  you. 
Good-by" 

She  sat  back,  drew  in  a  long  sober  breath,  and  stared  at 
the  wood-and-glass  partition  before  her.  Then  she  looked 
around  at  the  old  desk  behind  the  door — they  hadn't  taken 
it  away — where  Henry  Calverly  had  worked,  or  sat,  during 
two  or  three  unhappy  days.  Her  eyes  rested  then  on  the 
hook  on  which  he  had  hung  his  coat — the  ragged  old  alpaca 
with  the  purple  ink-stains.  Her  eyes  slowly  filled. 

She  went  again  at  the  typewriter.  Her  skilled  fingers 
spun  over  the  keys. 

Again  the  telephone,  and  the  clerk.  But  there  was  a  dif- 
ferent note  in  his  voice.  He  was  talking  with  another  man. 
Masculine  humor  was  passing  current.  Margie's  brows 
drew  together. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  315 

The  clerk  said,  "Allow  me  to  present  Mr.  Parker,  from 
Chicago."  Then  came  another  voice,  "How  do  you  do,  Miss 
Daw !  I'm  sure  it's  a  pleasure  to  meet  you." 

Margie  answered  crisply.  Could  she  see  him  in  half  an 
hour,  in  regard  to  a  really  important  matter?  And  would 
he  avoid  reporters  meanwhile  ? 

"But  my  dear  young  lady,"  he  replied — jauntily,  she  felt 
— "the  place  is  full  of  reporters.  They're  waiting  for  me 
now.  I'd  have  to  slip  out  a  window — I'll  ask  them  to  wait, 
and  look  for  a  side  door.  Yes — wait!  I'll  tell  you!  It 
ought  to  be  possible  to  pick  up  an  automobile.  It's  a  de- 
lightful evening.  I'll  be  out  here  on  the  square — on  the  dark 
side,  across  from  the  hotel.  We  can  take  a  little  run  up 
the  river  and  talk  in  peace." 

She  pursed  her  lips  over  this.  The  clerk  had  been  talking ; 
no  doubt  about  that.  She  wished,  rather  irritably,  she  could 
know  what  he  had  said.  And  this  Mr.  Parker  (could  he 
have  known  it!)  was  already  classified  and  filed  away  in 
Margie's  experienced  mind.  A  gentleman,  more  or  less ;  not 
very  young;  probably  married,  with  three  or  four  children; 
not  quite  used  enough  to  being  away  from  home  to  know 
what  to  do  with  his  freedom.  There  was  a  note  in  his  voice 
— slight  but  unmistakable — of  over-eagerness,  pressure. 
Bachelors  didn't  have  that ;  didn't  need  it.  Bachelors  were 
cool.  And  his  planning  a  ride,  before  he  had  so  much  as 
seen  her ;  bachelors  didn't  have  to  do  that,  either.  Too  many 
women,  single  and  married,  pursued  them.  No,  Mr.  Parker, 
of  Chicago,  was  just  a  little  on  the  loose.  She  knew  him — 
knew  hundreds  of  him.  Every  attractive  business  girl  knows 
him.  Now  and  than  a  thoughtful  girl  sees  deeper,  recognizes 
in  him — in  his  very  naivete — a  not  uninteresting  living  com- 
mentary on  the  institution  of  marriage  itself.  For  the  Mr. 
Parkers  are  not  "bad"  men;  they  are  men,  ordinarily  calm 
and  methodical  enough,  to  whom  occasional  flights  into 
freedom  are  over-stimulating. 

The  particular  Mr.  Parker  ran  true  to  type.  Before  the 
car  had  passed  the  last  factory  and  was  rolling  smoothlv 
along  the  state  road,  he  was  holding  her  hand.  She  let  him. 
It  was  nothing  to  her.  And  he  was  confiding — this  curious, 


316  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

rather  self-conscious  little  man — his  deep,  deep  need  of  an 
occasional  moment  of  human  relaxation,  such  as  the  present. 
"Human"  was  his  word.  He  rather  lingered  on  it.  Then, 
very  gradually,  very  casually,  he  slipped  an  arm  around  her 
shoulders.  Or  he  meant  it  to  appear  casual ;  but  toward  the 
last  was  slightly  breathless  about  it.  He  told  her,  in  \vhat 
seemed  to  himself  a  burst  of  honesty,  that  he  was  married. 
He  had  married  young,  before  character  and  tastes  could 
form.  These  things  were  always  puzzling.  You  couldn't 
plan  your  life.  You  were  drawn  into  it;  you  took  your 
chance;  tried  to  be  a  sport  about  it. 

Margie  could  have  screamed. 

But  he  blundered  on.  Could  Mrs.  Parker  have  heard  him 
•—Mrs.  Parker,  who  got  no  pleasant  little  business  outings 
and  to  whom  he  was  outwardly  (and  nearly  all  the  time, 
doubtless,  inwardly)  a  good  husband,  even  a  sincerely  loyal 
husband — she  would  have  been  crushed.  He  was  a  little 
disturbed  about  it  himself.  Margie  caught  his  hedging; 
wandering  into  a  curious  moral  and  ethical  labyrinth. 

She  passed  over  the  insulting  implications.  These,  too, 
•were  nothing  to  her.  They  were  simply  too  old  a  story. 
She  had  a  more  or  less  steady  contempt  for  men,  anyway. 
You  had  to  take  them  as  they  came,  play  with  them  or  not, 
as  you  might  choose. 

He  was  getting  himself  rather  heavily  involved.  Even 
this  Mr.  Parker  seemed  capable  of  perceiving  that  love- 
making,  even  to  a  mystifyingly  silent  if  apparently  com- 
plaisant young  person,  mustn't  be  wholly  impersonal.  He 
told  Margie  she  was  beautiful.  Commented  on  the  delicate 
texture  of  her  skin.  And  he  found  her  eyes  thrilling. 
From  the  first  she  had  touched  something  deeply  respon- 
sive in  him. 

Suddenly  she  pinned  him  down. 

"How  could  I  have  appealed  to  you  so?"  she  asked,  calm- 
ly. "You  hadn't  even  seen  me  when  you  suggested  this  ride." 

"It— it  must  have  been  your  voice,"  said  he. 

"These  things  are  strange" — her  voice  was  a  thought 
softer — "these  sudden  attractions." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  317 

"Strange — and  wonderful." 

"I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  take  your  arm  away." 

"Oh— no !" 

"Please!" 

"But  aren't  we  even  friends?" 

"Of  course!  But  hardly  more — this  first  hour.  No — sit 
this  way.  I  want  to  talk — seriously.  We  can't  talk  like 
that.  Not  seriously." 

She  told  him  of  her  plan  and  of  Henry's  consent.  She 
also  mentioned  Holmes  Hitt's  part  in  it. 

"You  see,"  she  explained,  "as  his  lawyer,  you've  got  to 
work  it  out — see  the  proper  authorities — organize  it  on  the 
charity  side.  And  I  suppose  there'll  be  legal  papers,  all  that. 
Mr.  Hitt  and  I  will  be  working  out  the  publicity.  You'll 
have  to  put  it  through  with  Mr.  Calverly,  too.  Sign  him  up 
to  it.  He  may  balk.  He's  queer." 

"He's  that!"  sighed  Mr.  Parker. 

"It's  a  great  big  story.  Handled  right,  it'll  put  him  on 
his  feet.  But  if  a  word  leaks  to  the  other  papers,  it's  no 
good.  So  please  be  careful." 

On  the  way  back  he  got  into  a  fresh  state  of  breathless- 
ness  over  the  idea  of  kissing  her.  For  a  time  she  fought 
him  off  out  of  sheer  annoyance.  Then,  when  they  were 
nearly  back  in  town,  she  yielded.  It  was  an  extraordinarily 
meaningless  performance.  She  had  to  fight  down  a  repug- 
nance that  threatened  to  break  out  in  words. 

She  wasn't  sure  she  could  get  away  on  the  following  even- 
ing. He  could  call  up,  of  course,  at  the  paper.  She  saiff 
nothing  of  her  apartment.  It  came  out  that  he  had  been 
looking  up  Henry  at  his  old  boarding-house,  but  no  one 
there  knew  where  he  had  gone.  She  gave  him  the  new  ad- 
dress. He  agreed  eagerly  to  work  on  the  legal  aspect  of 
the  plan  in  the  morning,  in  order  that  he  might  present  it 
effectively  to  Calverly.  His  first  thought  was  that  it  would 
be  best  to  have  the  money  available  simply  as  a  fund  from 
which  any  existing  charitable  organization,  settlement  or 
individual  social  worker  could  draw  after  proper  scrutiny  of 
the  particular  case.  He  said  that  new  organizations  were 


318  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

costly  and  uncertain  things.  He  was  intelligent  enough 
about  this.  She  left  him  at  the  square. 

More  from  force  of  habit  than  for  any  reason — for  her 
work  was  in  for  the  night — she  turned  up  the  alley  toward 
the  "annex." 

A  wan  stepped  out  into  the  light  and  accosted  her.  He 
was  tall,  shabby,  with  the  uncertain  eyes  and  the  in-pressing 
mouth  of  the  drunkard.  She  stopped  short.  It  was  her 
first  husband,  one  Joel  Mason.  He  had  been  sporting  editor 
of  a  paper  in  Buffalo  when  she  worked  there.  He  was  a 
drinker  then,  but  younger  and  more  pleasing ;  she  was  little 
more  than  an  adventurous  girl. 

For  just  a  moment  she  couldn't  remember  his  first  name. 
A  curious  moment.  In  answer  to  his  pleas  for  a  visit  with 
her — for  even  a  brief  talk — she  spoke  guardedly,  evasively. 
She  felt  that  she  ought  to  be  kind,  or  at  least  generous.  To 
Margie  generosity,  of  a  spasmodic  sort,  had  always  come 
more  easily  than  kindness.  Still,  Joel  had  a  sort  of  claim  on 
her  feelings,  repulsive  as  he  was. 

Finally,  with  a  vague  promise  to  meet  him  within  a  day 
or  so,  she  g"ot  away,  slipped  into  the  building,  around  back 
of  the  elevator  and  out  through  the  circulation  and  adver- 
tising office  to  the  street.  She  hurried,  then,  to  her  rooms, 
got  out  her  little  traveling  typewriter,  and  plunged  at  the 
Calverly  story.  She  wrote  all  night.  For  fatigue  of  body 
and  desperation  of  mind  can  act  oddly  like  the  sharpest 
stimulus.  At  ten  in  the  morning  she  was  in  Holmes  Hitt's 
office,  bright  and  trim.  Young  Mr.  Hitt  had  evolved  over- 
night a  plan  to  put  the  story  into  more  than  a  thousand 
newspapers.  She  found  he  was  thinking  too  of  the  "boiler 
plate"  matter  that  went  to  other  thousands  of  country 
dailies  and  weeklies. 

"The  job,"  he  said,  "is  to  rebuild  a  reputation,  from  the 
ground  up.  In  one  quick  sensation.  Play  on  their  feelincr?. 
Make  them  love  him.  .  .  .  But  for  God's  sake  don't 
let  him  suspect," 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SIX 
Of  Creation  and  Coincidence 

ON  the  same  evening,  toward  nine  o'clock,  Henry  Cal- 
verly  laid  down  his  pen,  raised  his  weary  though 
throbbingly  exalted  head,  and  surveyed  the  room.  The 
floor  was  half  covered  with  sheets  of  paper;  they  had 
drifted  in  under  wash-stand  and  bed;  a  few  had  gone  as 
far  as  the  door. 

He  pushed  back  his  chair ;  then  winced.  The  ache  in  his 
back,  of  which  he  had  been  half  conscious,  sharpened;  and 
pains  shot  down  his  thighs  and  calves.  For  nearly  five 
hours  he  had  been  sitting  stiffly  there;  leg-muscles  drawn 
up  tight,  heels  raised,  toes  digging  down  into  his  shoes. 
He  .got  up  with  a  little  groan.  The  story — if  it  could  be 
called  a  story ;  it  was  rather  a  picture  of  a  man  in  a  setting, 
a  picture  of  the  developing  West  of  the  eighteen- 
seventies  and  eighteen-eighties — was  clear  in  his  head ; 
sharply,  wonderfully  clear ;  so  clear  that  he  found  a  little  dif- 
ficulty in  focusing  his  eyes  on  the  littered  things  about  him 
and  at  catching  the  significance  of  what  his  eyes  told  him. 
He  gazed  back  longingly  at  the  half-written  page  on  the 
table.  He  was  seized  with  a  tremulous  fear  that  this  won- 
derful thing  would  leave  him ;  there  was  an  urge  in  his 
breast  to  write  till  he  dropped — follow  on  from  one  melting 
sentence  to  the  next — on  and  on  to  the  very  end. 

It  wouldn't  do,  of  course.  He  closed  his  eyes;  pressed 
the  hot  lids  down ;  again  looked  about. 

Painfully  he  gathered  the  sheets  and  stacked  them  on  the 
table. 

"I  must  number  them,"  he  thought,  helplessly.  Any  ef- 
fort, outside  of  writing  feverishly  on,  stirred  that  helpless 
sensation. 

"I'll  get  some  coffee,"  he  thought  next.  "That's  the  thing 
r-coffee!" 

319 


320  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

He  found  his  hat  ami  went  out.  The  people  he  passed 
down-stairs  were  shadows  to  him. 

An  oddly  familiar  figure  was  loitering,  near  the  corner, 
in  the  shade  of  the  maples.  A  little,  plumpish  girl,  who 
moved,  when  she  saw  him,  on  her  heels. 

He  stopped,  with  a  flutter  of  misgivings.  He  couldn't 
talk  now.  He  had  been  pouring  out  his  inmost  soul.  He 
was  all  open ;  all  emotion ;  no  worldly  crust  whatever 
protected  him,  or  protected  others  from  him.  He  was  really 
a  little  frightened.  And  here  was  Mary  Maloney  .  .  . 
coming  slowly  toward  him.  .  .  . 

"This  came  for  you,"  she  said ;  and  gave  him  a  telegram. 

He  moved  over  to  the  curb,  and  opened  it  under  the 
street  light.  It  was  from  Humphrey,  who  again  managed,  by 
throwing  in  an  unnecessary  extra  word  or  two  to  express 
a  heartiness  uncommon  in  telegrams.  He  was  coming  in 
person  the  next  day. 

Mary  was  saying,  shyly — "I  was  just  trying  to  get  my 
courage  up  to  take  it  in  there." 

He  turned  on  her.  "There  were  some  other  things,  Mary 
— a  telegram,  and  a  letter — I've  got  them  somewhere— -don't 
believe  I  opened  them  .  .  ." 

They  stood,  on  the  shadowy  sidewalk,  looking  at  each 
other. 

"...    you  didn't  bring  those,  Mary?" 

"Yes.  I  brought  them.  I — I  wanted  to  ask  if  you  were 
in :  then  I  thought  I'd  better  not." 

"You're  a  dear  girl,  Mary." 

"Oh— no    .     .     ." 

They  walked  slowly  along. 

"You  were — "  she  hesitated — "going  out  somewhere." 

"Only  for  some  coffee.  Been  writing  like  fury.  It's  won- 
derful. I've  felt  nothing  like  it  for  years.  I'm  doing  a  big 
book  at  last." 

"I'm  so  glad!"  she  cried  softly. 

He  became  aware  of  her  again. 

"You — "  he  began — "you  .  .  .  was  there  something? 
Oh,  the  telegram,  of  course." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  321 

She  let  this  pass.  They  went  into  a  little  lunch  room. 
She  watched  him  while  he  drank  two  big  cups  of  coffee  and 
ate  rolls.  Then  he  discovered  that  he  was  hungry  and  ate 
other  things.  She  thought  he  ate  faster  than  was  good  for 
him.  He  talked  a  good  deal  too.  He  was  away  up  in  the 
clouds.  Said  things  she  couldn't  understand.  She  had 
never  found  him  so  exciting. 

Then  they  found  themselves  on  the  street  again. 

She  started  to  speak  but  faltered. 

For  a  wonder  he  noticed  it. 

"What  is  it,  Mary  ?"  he  asked  gently. 

"Oh,  nothing.    You — you'll  be  going  back  to  your  work." 

"I  ought  to.     Mary,  there's  something  on  your  mind." 

"Oh  no,"  she  replied. 

Then,  without  further  comment  they  wandered  down  to 
the  river  and  sat,  prosaically  enough,  on  a  lumber  pile. 

"You  mustn't  run  errands  for  me  like  this,"  he  said.  "I'll 
give  the  post-office  my  change  of  address." 

"I  don't  mind,"  she  said. 

"But  it  isn't  right     ..." 

"I  did  want  to  see  you  to-night,"  she  remarked,  after  a 
pause.  "That  is,  I  hoped,  sort  of,  you'd  be  around." 

He  made  no  reply  to  this. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  clearly  groping  for  words,  "I — I 
don't  think  I'll  keep  books  any  more.  It's  on  my  nerves, 
I  guess." 

Still  he  was  silent. 

"I've  been  thinking  about  marrying  my  friend — we  talked 
about  that — " 

"Yes,  we  did,"  said  he,  rather  quickly. 

"The  truth  is — I  haven't  known  what  to  do.  I  can  see 
clearly  enough — just  as  clearly  as  you  can — that  it  wouldn't 
do  for  you  and  me  .  .  .  I've  felt  that  you  were  fond 
of  me.  And  nobody  ever  made  me  feel  the  way  you  have. 
Oh  yes,  I  may  as  well  own  up.  I  love  you,  I  guess.  What- 
ever it  is.  I  couldn't  say  no  to  you.  We  aren't  the  same 
kind" — her  voice  was  unsteady  at  this  point — "it  seems  too 
bad.  If  we  could — I  mean  if  I  could  help  you  instead  of 


322  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

being  a  drag  on  you — and  if  you  wanted  me,  I — I'd  come 
to  you.  I'd  have  to,  the  way  I  feel.  I  don't  think  I'd  care 
what  became  of  me.  Far  as  I  can  see  you  run  risks  either 
way.  The  girls  I  know  that  have  married  have  had  it  hard 
enough  .  .  .  I'd  go  to  you.  I  wouldn't  ask  you  to 
marry  me.  All  I'd  ask  would  be  that  you  wouldn't  get  me 
into  trouble.  And  I  hope  I'd  be  good  sport  enough  not  to 
whimper  if  you  did.  You  see,  I  could  always — well,  get 
work.  I'd  cook  for  you,  and  mend  your  clothes,  and  help 
you  save ;  I'd  .  .  . 

Her  voice  trailed  off. 

She  was  very  still.    But  she  didn't  seem  to  be  crying. 

A  little  hand  stole  into  his. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  tell  you — I  love  another 
woman." 

There  was  a  long,  long  silence. 

"Does  she — love  you?"  Mary  asked  breathlessly. 

"No     .     .     .     Well— no." 

Her  fingers  twisted  tightly  about  his. 

For  a  time  they  watched  the  river.  A  passenger  train 
roared  by  on  the  farther  bank.  Red  fire  spurted  from  the 
smoke  stack.  The  car  windows  were  a  long  streak  of  light. 
They  caught  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  white  linen  and  glitter- 
ing plate  and  glass  in  the  dining-car  at  the  rear.  It  disap- 
peared around  the  bend. 

"I'll  tell  you  the  thing  for  me  to  do,"  she  said.  Her  firm 
voice  reassured  him.  He  saw,  in  this  moment  of  illumina- 
tion, that  she  had  the  quality  of  strength  that  is  implied  in 
the  word  character;  more,  perhaps,  than  he  had  before  seen 
in  a  human  creature.  She  stood  alone,  making  her  way 
through  an  ugly  world.  And  she  wasn't  hard  or  bitter ;  she 
was  brimming  with  woman-feeling.  That  made  it  the  more 
difficult,  of  course. 

"Tell  you  what  I've  got  to  do,"  she  began  again    .     .    . 

"Oh  Mary,  why  not  go  through  with  it — marry  your 
friend !" 

"That's  it !"  she  replied.  "I've  got  to.  It— it's  the  next 
thing.  One  way  or  the  other,  I've  got  to  go  through  with 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  323 

this  thing  now.  Then — later  on — if  I  have  to  go  back  to 
bookkeeping,  why,  that'll  be  the  next  thing  then." 

They  parted  on  a  street  corner.  She  said  she'd  walk  out 
home  alone,  if  he  didn't  mind.  She  wasn't  afraid. 

So  Henry,  moved  to  the  point  of  bewilderment  by  the 
poignantly  gloomy  beauty  of  life,  went  back  to  his  task. 

Since  Cicely  died  he  had  not  been  on  such  frank  terms 
with  a  woman.  And  even  Cicely,  during  their  brief  married 
life,  would  have  had  to  express  her  feelings  through  indi- 
rection where  Mary  spoke  out  with  such  astonishing  frank- 
ness. 

As  there  wasn't  an  atom  of  cynicism  in  Henry's  make- 
up, it  didn't  so  much  as  occur  to  him  to  think  of  the  re- 
markable literary  value  in  the  experience  and  in  his  own 
reactions  to  it.  Obviously  this  value  was  great.  It  was  pure 
coincidence  that  the  experience  should  have  come  just  when 
his  need  of  constant  and  even  increasing  stimulation  was 
deepest.  But  so  it  happened. 

There  is  a  time  in  nearly  every  interesting  career,  after 
the  blind  forces  of  life  have  been  long  hostile,  when  the  lane 
comes  to  its  turning  and  all  the  forces  work  together  for 
good.  Henry's  long,  long  lane  had  come  to  such  a  turning. 
Helpful  coincidents  were  now,  and,  for  a  time  were  to  be, 
every-day  matters  with  him. 

One  other  such  should  now  claim  our  interest ;  one  which 
we  must  approach  through  other  eyes. 

The  elder  Mr.  Hitt  was  by  this  time  established  in  the 
old  Cantey  house  on  the  Hill ;  in  the  very  room  where  the 
course  of  Henry's  life  had  been,  for  better  or  worse, 
changed ;  settled  comfortably  enough  at  Jim  Cantey's  desk, 
the  railway  map  behind  him,  Mr.  Amme's  neatly  arranged 
wire  baskets  before  him,  the  books,  the  globe,  the  closed 
safe,  and  the  fleet  of  model  ships  on  the  bookcases. 

Mr.  Hitt,  like  Henry  before  him,  found  these  ships  a 
delight.  He  could  tip  back  in  Jim  Cantey's  swivel  chair, 
light  his  pipe,  gaze  up  at  the  Yangtze,  the  Volga  or  the 
Congo,  half  close  his  eyes,  and  glide  straightway  out  over 
the  Seven  Seas  of  fancy. 


324  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

On  the  working  side — and  here  habit  and  conscience  ruled 
— he  was  building  up  what  he  thought  of  as  a  neat  little 
job.  The  perfect  plaster-of-Paris  biography.  Jim  Cantey, 
the  child  and  youth ;  James  Cantey,  the  schoolboy ;  James  H. 
Cantey,  the  able  and  industrious  young  business  man.  And 
so  on.  Altogether  safe  and  sane.  The  sort  of  thing  that 
all  the  established  "literary"  journals  would  pronounce 
"sound"  and  even  "scholarly"  .  .  .  More  and  more,  in 
his  own  mind — particularly  now  that  he  was  slipping  back 
a  little  out  of  the  influence  of  the  dynamic,  highly  colored 
Calverly — Mr.  Hitt  was  inclined  to  justify  this  conservative 
treatment.  The  world,  after  all,  was  as  powerful  as  the 
flesh  and  the  devil.  It  wanted  what  it  was  used  to.  Above 
all  it  resented  being  roused  and  compelled  to  think.  If  you 
butted  your  head  against  it,  you  cracked  your  head ;  and  that 
was  about  all  you  did.  .  .  .  Mr.  Hitt,  it  is  clear,  was 
all  of  his  fifty-eight  years.  Once  upon  a  time  he  had  been 
a  blazing  young  revolutionary.  Those  years  were  still  a 
pleasantly  sentimental  memory.  He  could  even  yet  talk 
like  a  radical  thinker ;  had  so  talked  with  Calverly,  meaning 
every  word  of  it.  But  when  it  came  down  to  the  daily  task 
he  was — well,  fifty-eight. 

He  missed  Calverly;  meant  to  look  him  up.  He  even 
worried  about  him.  And  browsed  occasionally  in  Satraps 
of  the  Simple  with  a  queer  sense  of  unreality  that  at  mo- 
ments bordered  on  awe. 

Then  one  day  Miss  Cantey  came  home. 

There  was  a  great  bustling  about.  Trunks  were  moved 
in.  Servants  ran  up  and  down  the  stairs.  And  Mr.  Hitt 
sat  at  the  desk  working  only  intermittently,  thinking  ten- 
derly of  Henry. 

He  decided  to  look  him  up  that  evening.  The  boy  might 
be  in  want.  Or  he  might  have  learned  of  Miss  Cantey's 
return  and  be  suffering  the  damnable  tortures  of  the  sen- 
sitive, imaginative  soul. 

Miss  Cantey,  that  afternoon,  sent  in  a  courteous  little 
note.  She  was  glad  to  know  that  work  on  the  biography 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  325 

was  advancing.  It  would  be  pleasant  to  have  him  join  her 
at  tea. 

He  felt  curiously  shy  about  it ;  but  went.  His  clothes  felt 
a  little  shabby.  And  he  hadn't  much  small  talk. 

He  was  shown  into  an  up-stairs  sitting-room.  A  maid  with 
black  hair  waited  on  them.  Mrs.  Bentley,  the  housekeeper 
and  companion,  sat  in  a  corner  with  her  knitting. 

Miss  Cantey  rose  to  greet  him. 

His  surprise  must  have  been  evident,  for  she  promptly 
spoke  of  her  recovery  from  the  years  of  invalidism.  "I'm 
not  right  yet,"  she  said,  in  her  pleasantly  direct  way :  "there 
were  atrophied  muscles.  It's  quite  a  job  building  them  up. 
I've  had  to  learn  to  walk.  But  the  worst  is  over  now." 

She  looked  delicate,  he  thought,  but  extraordinarily  beau- 
tiful. It  was  mainly  in  her  coloring,  of  course. 

Despite  her  gentle,  thoughtful  ways,  it  was  difficult  for 
Mr.  Hitt  to  talk  with  her.  She  told  him  to  call  on  her  for 
any  help  he  thought  she  might  give  in  the  way  of  personal 
reminiscence.  So  they  talked,  impersonally.  As  soon  as 
he  decently  could,  he  got  away  and  out  of  the  house.  He 
headed  straight  for  Calverly's  boarding  place.  Perhaps  the 
boy  would  have  a  bite  of  dinner  with  him.  Anyway  they 
must  talk.  Something  must  be  done.  The  look  in  those 
blue  eyes  lingered  in  his  brain.  He  could  see  them,  here 
on  the  street.  They  urged  him,  as  his  own  heart  urged 
him,  toward  the  man  who  had  said — "A  woman  who  has 
given  her  heart  to  a  man  has  a  right  to  be  proud  of  him — 
hasn't  she?" 

What  was  Calverly  doing,  these  late  days,  to  make  the 
girl  proud  of  him?  For  she  was  a  princess  of  the  blood! 
.  .  .  So  ran  the  romantic  thoughts  of  fifty-eight. 

Mr.  Hitt,  clearly,  was  excited. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SEVEN 

In  Which  Hittie  Takes  a  Personal  Stand 

MR.  HITT  turned  up  the  side-street  under  the  wide- 
arching  maples.  The  early  autumn  twilight  was 
settling  over  the  street,  but  he  could  see  the  big  square 
boarding-house  with  its  old-fashioned  square  "cupola"  out- 
lined against  a  dimly  glowing  sky.  There  were  lights  in  the 
windows.  He  could  see,  in  the  large  corner  room,  a  wait- 
ress setting  a  table.  He  took  the  path  that  cut  diagonally 
across  the  lawn  to  the  steps. 

A  man  sat  there ;  a  dim  figure,  smoking  a  cigarette.  Paus- 
ing at  the  bottom  step,  peering  up  at  him,  Mr.  Hitt  saw 
long,  well-clad  legs,  a  light  overcoat  thrown  open  with  what 
appeared  to  be  a  roll  of  manuscript  bulging  out  one  side 
pocket,  a  long  face  under  a  tipped-back  hat. 

The  natural  thing  would  have  been  to  accept  this  young- 
ish man,  seated  in  so  matter-of-fact  an  attitude  on  the  steps, 
as  one  of  the  boarders  and  pass  him  by  without  a  thought. 

But  he  was  clearly  not  a  boarder.  There  was  still  a 
little  light  in  the  sky,  and  other,  yellow,  light  came  from  the 
windows.  The  man  looked  up,  for  one  thing,  with  a  faint, 
but,  to  the  trained  sensitive  gaze  of  old  Hittie,  perceptible 
curiosity.  And  for  another  thing,  his  clothes,  indistinct  as 
they  were,  were  of  a  smarter  cut  than  was  commonly  seen 
about  town.  Hittie,  after  a  second's  thought,  placed  them 
at  New  York. 

And  that  wad  of  loosely  rolled  paper  in  the  overcoat 
pocket !  He  wasn't  a  reporter,  of  course. 

Whatever  it  was,  Hittie  waited,  one  foot  on  the  bottom 
step. 

"I  believe  Mr.  Calverly  lives  here,"  said  Hittie,  with 
something  the  sensation  of  one  who  utters  a  momentous 
falsehood,  yet  moved  uncontrollably  to  make  talk. 

326 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  327 

The  long  head  bowed.  Then:  "What  do  you  want  of 
him  ?''  asked  the  stranger. 

The  remark  was  not  so  brusk  in  sound  as  the  bare 
words  might  appear.  Indeed,  they  warmed  Hittie's  heart, 
for  they  established  a  relationship;  possibly,  probably,  an 
intimate  relationship. 

"Merely  to  visit  with  him,"  he  replied.  "I  had  some 
thought  of  dragging  him  out  to  dinner,  if  he  was  at  home." 

"He's  at  home,"  remarked  the  man  from  New  York, 
rather  dryly,  "but  he's  pretty  busy." 

"Busy?    Not — not  writing?" 

The  man  bowed  again. 

"I'm  glad  of  that.  It  is  the  one  thing  he  needed — the 
thrill  of  creative  work.  We  had  a  long  talk  the  other  night. 
When  I  left  him  he  seemed  more  alive  than  I'd  seen  him 
before." 

"He's  alive  now,  all  right." 

"I'm  so  glad.  We  were  both  a  bit  excited  the  other  night. 
Just  talking." 

There  was  a  silence.  Mr.  Hitt  felt  a  pair  of  quick, 
quizzical  brown  eyes  taking  him  swiftly  and  surely  in. 

Then  the  man  asked,  rather  abruptly : 

"Are  you  Mr.  Hitt,  of  the  News  ?" 

Hittie  bowed. 

"I  thought  likely.  Henry  spoke  of  that  talk,  too.  It 
seems  to  have  been  one  of  the  things  that  stirred  him  up." 

Another  silence. 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  said  the  man  from  New  York,  final- 
ly ;  "let's  not  disturb  him.  I've  got  a  lot  of  the  stuff  here" — 
he  rested  a  hand  on  the  bulging  pocket.  "Thought  I'd  wan- 
der off  to  a  cafe  and  look  it  over.  He  talked  six  things  at 
once.  I  ran  away.  Do  you  mind  joining  me?  We  can 
have  a  stein  of  beer;  perhaps  a  bite  to  eat.  My  name's 
Weaver." 

"You  don't  think  we  ought  to  drag  the  boy  out?' 

"No.  Let  nature  take  its  course.  I've  been  through  all 
this  before  with  Henry.  He  wrote  Satraps  of  the  Simple 
all  over  my  living-room." 


328  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

Hittie  gazed  at  him  in  something  near  awe.  As  if,  almost, 
a  man  had  said,  "Keats  borrowed  my  pencil  to  write  A 
Grecian  Urn." 

They  moved  down  the  path. 

Weaver  looked  back;  took  Hittie's  arm  and  said, 
"Listen!" 

A  baritone  voice,  rather  pleasant  in  quality,  was  booming 
out  through  the  still  evening  air. 

"It'sCalverly?" 

Weaver  nodded. 

They  saw  him  then,  through  a  third-floor  window,  strid- 
ing about  and  waving  his  arms  as  he  sang. 

Over  a  table  in  a  little  cafe,  they  looked  through  the 
manuscript.  They  were  two  or  three  hours  at  this. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it  ?"  asked  Weaver. 

"It's  extraordinary.  It's  the  real  West  as  it  was  just 
when  Jim  Cantey  was  about  to  appear  on  the  scene.  Setting 
the  stage  for  him." 

Weaver,  pulling  at  an  imported  cigar,  long  legs  stretched 
out  under  the  table,  hands  deep  in  pockets,  chin  on  breast, 
swarthy  mobile  face  wrinkling  with  his  swiftly  passing 
thoughts,  considered  this.  At  length  he  said : 

"You're  a  literary  man,  Mr.  Hitt.  How  good  do  you 
think  it  is?" 

"I'd  want  to  read  it  over,  slowly." 

"But  it  is  good?" 

"Unquestionably." 

"You  think  he  has  come  back." 

"I  don't  think  he's  been  very  far  away.  He  couldn't  fight 
the  world,  alone." 

"No.    Of  course." 

"My  impression  is  that  he  has  stepped  out  far  ahead  of 
any  earlier  work." 

"That's  saying  a  lot." 

"I  know  that.  But  look"  ...  he  turned  the  pages; 
read  a  sentence  here  and  there,  quite  at  random  .  .  . 
"just  get  the  sound  of  those.  The  freshness  of  it.  The 
sure,  light  hand.  And  an  extraordinary  sense  of  person- 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  329 

ality  back  of  the  words — of  a  rich,  warm,  keen  mind.  It's 
interesting,  you  never  feel  just  that  when  you're  with  him. 
But  it  was  in  Satraps  of  tlie  Simple" 

Weaver  nodded.  "Yes,  I  feel  all  that.  But  I  don't  trust 
my  judgment  where  Hen  is  concerned.  I've  worried  so 
over  him." 

''What  I'd  like  to  know,"  remarked  Hittie,  musingly,  "is 
how  on  earth  he  can  write  so  fast,  all  of  a  sudden." 

"It's  uncanny.  He  said,  when  he  was  writing  the  other 
stories,  that  it  was  like  taking  dictation." 

"What  gets  me,  too,  is  his  amazing  knowledge  of  the  Old 
West" 

"Oh,  he's  roamed  around  out  there  some.  And  he  must 
have  read  a  lot,  at  odd  times.  And  he  was  at  the  Public 
Library  last  night  until  they  turned  him  out.  But  most  of 
it  comes  through  his  pores.  That's  Hen.  You  have  to 
allow  for  that  in  figuring  him  out  ...  I  can't  tell  you 
what  this  means.  They'll  never  get  him  now.  He's  step- 
ping out  on  the  highroad.  If  you've  never  seen  him  when 
he  was  stepping  high — " 

"I  never  have — "  Hittie  broke  in,  eagerly. 

" — then  there's  some  amusement  ahead  of  you." 

"He's  been  a  rather  dismal  figure  here." 

"Naturally.    He's  had  a  hell  of  a  time,  for  years." 

"But  he  did  blaze  up  the  other  night — in  our  talk." 

Weaver  chuckled.  "Just  wait,"  he  said.  .  .  .  "I'm 
taking  the  midnight  to  New  York.  You  keep  the  manu- 
script until  I  can  get  back  here.  I'll  tell  Hen  you  have  it. 
And  slip  in,  now  and  then,  if  you  can,  and  gather  it  up. 
Don't  trust  him  with  it.  And  if  you  could  help  a  little  at 
the  library  .  .  .  he's  not  used  to  research.  And  he 
wants  a  lot  of  data.  Particularly  about  railroads  and  busi- 
ness combines  and  the  operations  of  big  financial  men.  I 
can  help  some,  when  I  get  back." 

Hittie  walked  slowly  to  his  own  rooms. 

He  returned  to  the  Cantey  house,  later  in  the  evening, 
and  shut  himself  in  the  library.  Calverly's  manuscript  never 
left  his  hand. 


330  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

He  read  it  through,  sitting  at  Jim  Cantey's  desk. 

He  had  already  written  a  few  tentative  chapters  of  his 
own  more  formal  biography.  He  got  these  out  now  and 
read  them.  Next  he  skimmed  through  the  notes  he  had 
made  bearing  on  later  chapters.  Then  he  laid  his  little  heap 
of  script  on  the  desk  beside  Calverly's  and  for  a  long  time 
sat  staring  at  the  two. 

Finally,  tired,  depressed,  he  tiptoed  down-stairs,  let  him- 
self out,  and  wandered,  roundabout,  to  his  rooms. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  Miriam  Cantey  breakfasted 
in  her  room.  The  morning  paper — the  News — came  up 
with  her  tray. 

She  turned  the  pages,  idly,  as  she  sipped  her  coffee.  Then, 
moved  by  a  half -memory,  incredulous,  her  pulse  accelerating 
a  little,  she  turned  back  to  page  one. 

It  was  odd;  her  eyes  had  passed  over  a  certain  black 
heading.  They  must  have  caught  it  without  at  once  com- 
municating it  to  her  brain. 

It  was  Margie  Daw  and  Holmes  Hitt's  widely  syndicated 
story  of  Henry  Calverly's  renunciation  of  a  fortune.  She 
read,  breathless ;  followed  the  narrative  to  an  inside  page. 
There  Henry's  picture  appeared.  She  gazed  long  at  it.  And 
as  she  read  on  she  paused  at  short  intervals  to  look  up  at  the 
features  that  were  familiar  yet  strange.  .  .  .  For  the 
first  time  she  learned  the  circumstances  attending  Henry's 
trouble  with  the  court.  For  the  first  time  she  pictured  him 
with  that  lovely  young  wife — confused,  tortured,  led  by  his 
feelings  into  technical  fault.  She  read  resolutely  on  through 
a  mist  of  tears  that  frequently  hid  the  print.  .  .  . 
Margie  had  gone  to  old  files  of  the  Chicago  papers  in  the 
public  library  for  her  data.  She  told  the  story,  now,  simply, 
clearly,  without  over-writing,  led  by  a  sound  and  well- 
trained  instinct  to  set  out  the  unadorned  facts. 

Over  and  over  Miriam  struggled  through  the  story.  The 
thing  was  a  nervous  shock. 

He  had  refused  to  accept  the  money.  A  part  of  it  had 
already  gone,  it  appeared,  to  the  new  public  baths.  All  the 
rest  was  to  go  to  a  fund  to  help  unfortunate  first  offenders 
on  their  release  from  prison. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  331 

The  pain  about  her  eyes  and  the  throbbing  in  the  back 
of  her  head  alarmed  her  a  little.  But  more  alarming  still 
was  the  chaotic  state  of  her  thoughts.  She  tried  lying  down ; 
but  after  only  a  moment  was  on  her  elbow  reading  it  again. 
With  the  same  difficulty,  however;  she  could  see  bits  of 
the  picture  but  not  all  of  it  at  once.  It  was  as  if  there  were 
rays  of  memory  and  understanding  that  came  to  a  focus  at 
a  point  somewhere  past  and  behind  her  brain.  The  story 
was  personally  close  to  her.  The  man  was  too  close  .  .  . 
She  read  his  notes  again.  It  was  like  a  fever,  as  it  had  been 
during  their  day  of  happiness  in  each  other,  but  more  press- 
ing, more  poignant.  She  wondered  how  she  was  going  to 
endure  through  it.  It  would  pass,  doubtless.  Everything 
seemed  to  pass,  in  time.  At  least  the  passion  in  it  would 
die  down. 

A  thought  that  took  form  an  hour  or  so  later  seemed 
curiously  to  derive  from  it,  or  to  bear  on  it. 

Since  her  father's  death,  and  during  her  invalidism,  she 
had  never  dwelt  on  the  fact  that  she,  a  young 
woman,  was  living  alone  in  the  big  house,  with  none  but 
paid  servants  about  her.  She  had  early  come  to  like  the 
arrangement.  But  now,  during  these  few  days  since  her 
return  from  California  a  slightly  unpleasant  self-conscious- 
ness had  proved  disturbing.  She  was  not  yet  strong,  but 
she  used  a  cane  now  only  during  her  short  walks  in  the 
street,  moving  about  the  house  without  such  aid.  In  a 
word,  she  was  on  the  reasonably  rapid  road  to  becoming  an 
attractive  and  desirable  young  woman.  And  attractive  and 
desirable  young  women  did  not  make  it  a  practise,  in  1903, 
to  keep  house  alone.  It  was  puzzling.  She  put  it  a  little 
differently  to  herself;  but  that  was  about  what  it  came 
down  to. 

Esther,  in  a  last  attempt  to  make  up  their  quarrel,  had 
dwelt  on  the  point.  Had  driven  it  home,  in  fact. 

Late  in  the  morning  the  black-haired  maid  brought  a 
message  from  the  gentleman  who  was  working  in  the  study. 
He  would  like  a  few  words  with  Miss  Cantey.  Where  was 
he?  Why  there,  in  the  study. 


332  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

Miriam  said  she  would  join  him  there. 

He  rose  and  stood  gravely  behind  the  desk  as  she  came 
in  and  seated  herself  in  the  big  chair  by  the  safe.  She 
thought  him  very  attractive;  a  gentle  man.  There  was 
something  comfortable  about  his  bald  head  and  his  close-cut 
gray  mustache  and  the  quiet  eyes  behind  his  glasses.  But  he 
was  grave;  and  paler  than  yesterday,  she  thought.  He  had 
two  little  heaps  of  manuscript  before  him  on  the  desk  that 
he  fingered  rather  nervously  after  he  sat  down. 

She  wished  for  a  fluttering  moment  that  she  had  ar- 
ranged to  meet  him  in  some  other  room.  It  was  going  to 
be  difficult  in  here.  Everything  was  the  same,  even  to  Mr. 
Amme's  row  of  wire  baskets  with  their  neat  piles  of  cor- 
respondence and  notes. 

"Miss  Cantey,"  he  began;  then  hesitated  and  looked 
thoughtfully  at  the  two  manuscripts  .  .  . 

She  wondered,  rather  wildly,  if  he  was  going  to  make  a 
speech.  It  seemed  that  he  must  surely  hear  her  heart  beat. 

He  started  again.  "I  feel  that  I  must  speak  with  you 
about  this  before  I — take  any  other  steps.  As  you  know, 
I've  been  trying  to — well,  write  a  biography  of  your  father. 
I  find  that  I — can't  go  on  with  it.  I  will  come  for  a  day  or 
two  more.  That  will  be  enough  to  leave  things  in  order." 

She  sat  motionless;  looked  at  him  out  of  wide  blue  eyes. 
What  was  coming  next?  He,  too — this  older  man — was 
stirred  by  some  strong  emotion.  And  it  concerned  her. 

"I  have  been  sitting  here  this  morning" — ?o  he  continued 
— "trying  to  think  out  the  right  course.  I  haven't  exactly 
succeeded  in  that."  He  smiled,  rather  wistfully.  "Hut  right 
or  not,  I  find  I  must  tell  you  of  my  difficulty.  This" — he 
laid  a  hand  on  one  pile  of  script — "is  the  work  I  have  been 
doing  here.  It  is  a  conventional  beginning  of  a  conventional 
biography.  This" — his  hand  moved  over  to  the  other  script, 
and  played  about,  turning  up  the  pages  at  one  corner — "is 
the  beginning  of  what  will  be  classified,  I  suppose,  as  a  work 
of  fiction.  What  it  really  is,  is  the  biography  I'm  supposed 
to  be  writing." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  333 

Miriam  leaned  a  little  forward.  She  was  pale.  Her  lips 
parted  slightly.  She  was  nearly  breathless.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed,  as  if  fascinated,  on  the  script. 

"It  was  written — it  is  being  written  now,  day  and  night — 
by  my  predecessor  here,  Mr.  Henry  Calverly." 

He  was  embarrassed  about  this;  rather  stilted. 

For  a  curious  moment  their  eyes  met. 

"He  isn't  using  actual  names,  of  course,  but  the  thing  he 
is  doing  takes  the  ground  from  under  my  feet." 

Miriam  here  made  her  first  remark.    She  felt  inadequate. 

"Is  there — "  her  voice  failed  her ;  she  had  to  begin  again 
— "is  there  any  reason  why  both  can't  go  on  ?" 

"None  whatever.  Excepting  in  so  far  as  I  myself  am  a 
reason.  Miss  Cantey,  we've  talked  over  this  biography 
problem,  he  and  I.  We  see  it  alike.  But  I'm  getting  to  be 
an  old  man.  When  all's  said  and  done" — his  voice  was 
none  too  steady — "I  am  a  literary  hack.  But  he's  a  genius. 
A  great  genius,  I  think.  This" — he  tapped  the  script — "is 
the  finest  thing  I  know  of  so  far  in  American  literature. 
As  a  picture,  that  is,  of  a  people  and  a  time."  A  hush  crept 
into  his  voice.  "To  me  it  is  a  miracle.  That  boy,  without 
half  the  data  he  needs,  with  nothing  but  the  fire  that  is  in  his 
soul,  borrowing  money  to  keep  himself  barely  alive  in  that 
boarding-house.  .  .  ." 

His  voice  died  out. 

It  was  just  as  well.  He  knew  that  he  had  lost  control  of 
it.  He  sat  gazing  ruefully  down  at  the  desk. 

There  was  a  rustle. 

He  started,  and  looked  up. 

Miss  Cantey  was  on  her  feet.  She  looked  as  if  she  were 
about  to  speak  ;  even  threw  out  one  hand  as  if  for  emphasis ; 
but  turned  away  and  actually  hurried  out.  She  did  say  some- 
thing ;  it  sounded  like,  "You'll  excuse  me,  I'm  sure."  Hardly 
more  than  that. 

An  hour  later  she  asked  the  new  maid  if  Mr.  Hitt  was 
still  in  the  study.  It  appeared  that  he  had  gone  out. 

Miriam  waited  until  the  maid  had  got  down-stairs,  the» 


334  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

went  back  through  her  own  den  to  the  narrow  door ;  stood 
listening;  opened  the  door;  then  stepped  into  the  larger 
room. 

It  was  the  second  time  she  had  walked  through  that  little 
door.  The  first  time  had  been  to — him.  .  .  . 

The  desk  was  not  quite  in  order.  Mr.  Hitt  would  be 
back,  surely,  in  the  afternoon.  If  not — well,  she  could  call 
a  messenger  boy.  She  could  do  something. 

She  knelt  by  the  safe  and  worked  out  the  combination. 

She  took  out  an  armful  of  note-books  and  papers,  and 
carried  them,  with  some  effort,  to  her  own  room.  The  tin 
box  she  got  from  her  trunk. 

She  rang  then,  and  curtly  (for  her)  asked  the  maid  to 
bring  twine  and  paper.  She  made  a  large  parcel,  tying  it 
securely  and  sealing  all  the  knots  with  wax  stamped  with 
her  own  seal.  She  addressed  it  to  Henry  in  Mr.  Hitt's  care. 
It  occurred  to  her,  with  a  twinge  of  new  pain,  that  she 
didn't  know  his  address. 

She  wrote  a  few  lines,  asking  Mr.  Hitt  if  he  would  be  so 
kind  as  to  see  that  the  parcel  was  placed  safely  in  Mr.  Cal- 
verly's  hands. 

It  was  risky  business,  but  she  found  she  didn't  care.  Noth- 
ing mattered. 

She  had  it  placed,  with  the  note  on  top,  on  the  desk  in 
the  study. 

She  went  to  bed  later,  more  than  a  little  frightened  by  the 
state  she  was  in;  but  not  before  satisfying  herself  that  Mr. 
Hitt  had  come  again  and  gone  with  the  parcel. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-EIGHT 

Of  Calverly's  Callers,  the  Library  at  the  Town  Club,  and 

Melodrama 

CA.LVERLY  had  two  callers  on  Sunday ;  one  late  in  the 
afternoon,  the  other  earl)'  in  the  evening. 

The  first  was  Mr.  Hitt,  with  a  parcel. 

Henry — in  his  shirt-sleeves,  hair  in  wild  confusion,  thumb 
and  first  two  fingers  of  his  right  hand  stained  with  ink 
— put  the  parcel  vaguely  in  a  corner,  by  the  wash-stand,  and 
talked  radiantly  of  his  book. 

"I've  just  been  figuring  up/'  he  cried,  "and  it  runs  over 
thirty  thousand  words!  You'll  admit  that  that's  tearing 
it  off." 

Hittie  tried  to  smile.  "But  are  you  getting  any  rest  ?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,  I  sleep.  Oh,  I  dream  a  lot.  You  know — all  tight. 
But  it's  worth  it.  God,  to  feel  this  power — take  it  right  in 
your  two  hands  and  mold  it — it's  the  big  thrill !" 

Hittie  sat  on  a  stiff-backed  chair;  studied  him;  glanced 
down  at  the  parcel ;  finally  indicated  it  with  a  movement  of 
head  and  eyes. 

"Henry,"  he  said,  "Miss  Cantey  asked  me  to  put  that 
safely  in  your  hands." 

Henry  caught  this ;  settled  back  in  his  chair ;  paled. 

"Miss— Miss  Cantey?" 

Hittie  bowed.    They  were  still  for  a  long  moment. 

Then  Henry  asked,  "Did  she — say  anything?" 

Hittie  shook  his  head. 

"I've  been  thinking  of  you,"  said  Hittie,  feeling  very 
clumsy,  "and — well,  of  her.  I  wish — you'll  let  me  say  this, 
Henry? — I  wish  you  could  feel  like  communicating  with 
her." 

He  was  talking  at  the  young  man's  rigid  back.  It  was 
difficult.  But  he  pressed  on. 

335 


336  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"One  thought  comes  up.  Her  wealth  .  .  .  well,  nat- 
urally, it  must  have  stood  in  the  way,  as  you  saw  it."  He 
thought  Henry  stirred  a  little,  and  quickened  his  speech. 
"But  now — it  would  be  false  pride,  my  boy.  You've  thrown 
away  a  fortune  that  was  as  clean  as  most.  Have  you — seen 
the  morning  News,  Henry?" 

Calverly  shook  his  head. 

Hittie  sat  a  little  longer;  then  rose,  and  picked  up  hat 
and  stick. 

Calverly  heard  him,  and  turned.    He  was  white. 

"Can't  you  see  how  I'm  fighting  for  her!"  he  cried.  "It's 
luck— or  Providence — that  the  old  power  has  come  back  to 
help  me.  But  I'd  have  to  fight  anyway.  It's  everything  or 
nothing  now.  In  a  day  or  two  more,  if  I  can  just  keep  up 
this  pace,  I'll  have  all  the  introductory  story  as  I  want  it — as 
it's  got  to  be.  Then  do  you  know  what  I'm  going  to  do? 
Hop  on  the  special  and  go  straight  to  New  York  and  make 
Guard  read  it.  I  wired  him  this  afternoon,  a  night  message. 
.  Then — if  he  takes  it — if  he  thinks  it's  a  real  book,  and  ad- 
vances money — you  know,  backs  me,  so  I'll  feel  that  Fm 
a  going  concern  again — I'll  come  back  and  ask  to  see  her." 

There  was  a  ring  in  his  voice.  He  was  really  a  rather  be- 
wildering young  fellow.  So  many  sides  to  him.  Henry 
Calverly,  the  genius,  was  not  to  be  talked  down  offhand. 

Hittie,  hesitating  a  little,  moved  to  the  door,  then  out 
into  the  hall. 

Calverly  followed ;  took  his  arm,  suddenly  shy. 

"How—" 

Hittie  waited. 

"How  did  she  seem  to  be  ?" 

"Oh,  much  better.    She  is  walking  now." 

It  took  Calverly  a  long  moment  to  get  this  news  well  into 
his  mind. 

"Do  you  know  what's  in  that  package  ?" 

Hittie  shook  his  head.  And  Calverly  let  him  go  then ; 
went  back,  locked  himself  in,  and  broke  the  seals.  For  a 
long  time  then — one  or  two  hours — he  pored  over  the  note- 
books and  other  private  papers  of  Jim  Cantey.  Though 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  337 

during  much  of  the  time  he  set  staring  at  nothing,  lost  on 
a  wild  sea  of  pure  feeling. 

Why  had  she  sent  them  ?    Why  ? 

There  were  moments  when  he  asked  himself  seriously  if 
he  could  stand  the  painful  ecstasy  they  brought  him.  His 
brain  seemed  blinded,  deafened,  beaten  back  into  a  tumult 
of  emotions  that  racked  him  to  the  very  edge  of  endurance. 

He  tried  turning  back  to  his  work ;  but  literally  threw  up 
his  hands.  He  carefully  tied  up  the  Cantey  papers,  locked 
them  in  the  closet,  and,  hat  in  hand,  went  down-stairs. 

A  tall  slender  man  was  strolling  along  the  path  toward 
the  steps,  just  coming  within  the  light  of  the  front  windows 
as  Henry  came  out  the  front  door.  They  met  at  the  steps. 
He  recognized  Oswald  Quakers  and  stopped  dead. 

Qualters  at  least  had  the  grace  not  to  offer  his  hand.  He 
stood,  quite  at  ease ;  said,  "Hello,  Calverly.  I  was  just  going 
to  look  you  up.  I  need  your  advice.  You  know  all  about 
books." 

"No,"  Henry  replied,  truthfully,  eying  him,  "I   don't." 

"But  you  know  something.  Going  anywhere  in  par- 
ticular?" 

Henry  didn't  want  to  lie  to  the  man.  He  said,  "No. 
I— I'm  a  little  tired." 

"Out  for  the  air,  eh  ?  Tell  you  what — stroll  to  the  Town 
Club  with  me.  Have  a  bite  to  eat,  if  you  feel  like  it." 

Calverly  hesitated ;  then,  without  any  definite  reason,  went. 
The  man  had  from  their  first  encounter  engaged  his  inter- 
est. One  oddly  detached  thought,  flitting  through  his  mind, 
was  that  this  very  Oswald  Qualters  wouldn't  serve  badly  at 
all  in  a  study  of  financier  types.  He  was  more  an  adroit, 
lawyer-minded  manipulator  than  a  promotor  or  builder; 
but  the  West  had  known  such.  He  and  his  kind  were  cer- 
tainly factors  in  the  great  confused  result  that  was  called 
America.  So  Henry,  as  they  walked  and,  later,  ate  a  pleas- 
ant little  supper  in  the  huge  club  dining-room,  took  the  man 
in,  felt  his  metal. 

"I'xc  got  to  go  over  the  club  library,"  said  Quakers. 
"That's  my  trouble.  Why  should  a  club  have  a  library. 


338  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

anyway?  There  are  three  good  ones  in  town.  We  can't 
compete.  Think  I'll  chuck  most  of  it  out.  Keep  the  cyclo- 
pedias, atlases,  almanacs  and  things  and  label  them  'bet- 
settlers.'  Then  buy  a  lot  of  detective  stories  and  truck  for 
bed  reading.  Put  those  around  handy  in  the  sleeping- rooms. 
And  perhaps  a  department  of  books  about  the  city — history, 
manufactures,  all  that.  Wouldn't  that  about  cover  the  pos- 
sibilities ?" 

Henry  thought  it  would. 

Quakers'  talk  veered  around. 

''We've  treated  you  pretty  rotten  here,  haven't  we?  I 
should  think  you'd  loathe  the  place.  .  .  .  Decent  of  you 
to  stay  on.  We're  not  so  bad — run  about  the  average — but 
we  got  you  all  wrong,  from  the  start.  .  .  .  Why  don't 
you  come  into  the  club,  here?  Good  way  to  meet  the  men 
on  their  human  side.  Do  them  good  to  know  you.  You  see, 
we're  all  business.  Your  kind  scares  us  to  death." 

And  later  this: 

"I'm  motoring  down  the  state  to-morrow.  Why  don't 
you  come  along?  I've  got  to  stop  off  and  cheer  up  our  poor 
souse  of  a  mayor.  Then  on  down  to  Senator  Painter's. 
He's  got  a  fine  stock  farm.  Great  show  place.  .  .  .  Got 
to  work  ?  Well,  as  you  like.  If  you  feel  to-morrow  morning 
that  you'd  like  to  ride,  call  me  up.  Glad  of  your  company. 
I  shall  hardly  get  away  before  noon." 

From  his  mail  box  Quakers  drew  a  copy  of  Satraps  of 
the  Simple. 

"Would  you  put  your  name  in  it  ?"  he  asked,  in  his  cheer- 
ily offhand  way.  "Promised  my  wife  I'd  try  to  get  it." 

And  Henry,  not  wholly  proof  against  such  flattery,  chok- 
ing down  an  uprush  of  bitter  exultation,  stood,  an  honored 
guest,  in  the  Town  Club,  which  he  had  so  often  passed  as 
an  outcast,  autographing  a  copy  of  his  book. 

Quakers,  stepping  briskly  up-stairs  to  the  card  room,  left 
his  debonair  good  humor  behind.  He  stood  in  the  doorway, 
very  grave. 

Harvey  O'Rell,  lounging  in  there,  came  quickly  out. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  339 

"I  saw  him  here  with  you,  didn't  I  ?"  asked  O'Rell. 

Quakers  nodded  crisply. 

"Any  results?" 

"Progress." 

"Will  he  go  down  to  the  senator's  with  you?" 

"Probably  not.  You'd  better  keep  pretty  quiet  until  you 
see  me  again." 

O'Rell  flashed  a  questioning  eye  at  him.    Then  said : 

"Miriam  is  back,  isn't  she?" 

"Yes,  she's  back." 

"Have  they  met  ?" 

"Not  yet.    But  they  will." 

"Has  she  gone  into  the  safe  again?'' 

"Yes.  But  be  quiet,  Harvey.  No  more  of  that  rough 
work." 

"But  good  God!    .    .    ." 

"It  has  come  down  to  capturing  the  man  himself.  I'm 
afraid  you'll  have  to  leave  it  to  me.  When  is  the  County 
Railways  meeting — Friday  ?'' 

"No,  Wednesday." 

"And  her  birthday—" 

"Tuesday.  We  have  something  less  than  forty-eight 
hours,  Quakers.  When  is  Amme  to  see  her?" 

"To-morrow  evening." 

"He'll  fail." 

"Almost  certainly." 

"And  there's  no  other  influence  we  can  bring  to  bear  on 
her." 

"None.     She  has  broken  with  her  sister." 

"You  figure  that  she'll  dismiss  Amme  and  turn  to  Cal- 
verly?  ...  I  see." 

"And  then  Calverly  will  have  to  turn  to  some  one — pos- 
sibly to  me,  possibly  not." 

With  which  Mr.  Quakers  went  away,  as  briskly  as  he  had 
come. 

Quakers'  oddly  precise  information  came  from  within 
the  Cantey  household. 

In  the  casual  course  of  managing  the  intricate  and  enor- 


340  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

mous  business  and  political  interests  of  Senator  Painter,  a 
large  detective  agency  was  employed  around  the  calendar. 
\\'e  have  already  seen,  in  following  the  sinuous  course  of 
Oswald  Qualters,  evidence  of  this  fact.  The  senator  had 
for  a  generation  pinned  his  faith  to  the  Pickerings.  The 
black-haired  up-stairs  maid  who  had  attended  Miriam  Can- 
tey  since  her  return  from  the  West  was  William  Pickering's 
private  secretary. 

Life  is  more  primitive  than  fiction.  The  facts,  probably, 
lie  closer  to  what  we  choose  to  call  melodrama  than  to  our 
subtler  artifices. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-NINE 

/H  Which  the  Local  Napoleon  Undertakes  Something  in  the 
Xatnrc  of  a  Return  from  Elba 

MAYOR  TIM  was  undergoing  a  severe  but  swift  treat- 
ment for  inebriety.    A  few  days  more  and  he  would 
be  sent  back  to  what  he  was  in  the  habit  of  referring  to  as 
his  work. 

Quakers  found  him,  a  wan,  utterly  empty  figure  of  a  man, 
sprawled  on  a  couch  on  a  glassed-in  roof,  with  flower  boxes 
all  about  and  canary  birds  trilling  overhead;  and  thought 
whimsically  of  Napoleon  at  St.  Helena. 

"Well,  how's  it  going?"  he  asked,  lightly  enough. 

The  mayor  raised  himself  on  an  elbow ;  ran  a  shaking 
hand  through  straggling  hair. 

"Oh,  well  enough.  They're  most  through  with  me.  How's 
things  going  up  there  ?  That's  what  I  want  to  know." 

Quakers  thoughtfully  took  in  the  weak  vain  face,  the 
nerve-shaken  body,  the  disorderly  dress  of  the  city's  chief 
executive.  He  spoke  crisply. 

"Just  at  the  moment,  pretty  badly.  Miss  Cantey  is  back, 
and  won't  renew  the  trust.  She  has  turned  all  those  papers 
over  to  Calverly  again." 

The  mayor's  eyes  wavered  up  from  the  carpet. 

"Well,  you  can  do  something  about  that,  can't  you!"  he 
cried,  in  a  weak  husky  voice. 

"I  think  so." 

"You  think  so!    Well,  that's  cool!" 

"Don't  raise  your  voice,  Tim." 

"But— but— " 

"The  annual  meeting  of  County  Railways  comes  Wed- 
nesday. After  that,  we'll  have  some  idea  of  where  we 
stand.  Get  a  rough  idea  of  how  to  approach  the  Cantey 
'National  Bank  meeting  next  week." 

341 


342  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

The  mayor  was  swearing,  softly,  richly,  pouring  out  a 
stream  of  vilely  vivid  phrases. 

"Even  if  we  should  have  a  bad  week  or  two,  it'll  work 
out,  Tim.  Don't  lose  you  head  altogether.  As  it  is  you're 
my  only  real  worry.  You're  such  a  hopeless  damn  fool." 

The  mayor  sat  up  now ;  swung  his  slippered  feet  over  the 
side  of  the  couch. 

"That's  an  insult,"  he  said.  "You  can't  insult  me,  Oswald 
Quakers — you,  nor  Senator  Painter — none  of  you  !" 

"It  isn't  so  bad  as  it  sounds,  Tim.  Miss  Cantey  could 
never  handle  the  smallest  details  of  Cantey  Estate." 

"But  that  fellow  ?" 

"Calverly  ?  He's  worse.  He's  a  genius.  He'd  be  coming 
to  Harvey  or  me  for  advice  the  second  morning." 

"But  if  he  publishes—" 

"Publish?  What?  Where?  He  can't  start  any  muck- 
raking in  the  News.  Bob's  safe.  And  you  know  who  con- 
trols the  Herald.  There's  nothing  else  that  counts.  No, 
you've  got  to  let  me  protect  you  in  my  own  way.  There's 
nothing  you  can  do.  Except  to  stay  right  here  until  you 
hear  from  me.  And  keep  still." 

Quakers  left  then  ;  got  into  his  limousine  ;  rolled  smoothly 
on  down  the  state  toward  the  senator's  country  home.  To 
bulldoze  Tim  Maclntyre,  keep  him  sick  with  fright,  seemed 
to  him  the  safest  method.  It  had  worked  fairly  well  up  to 
the  present.  And  with  the  liquor  boiled  out  of  him  Tim 
wouldn't,  at  least,  be  crazy.  With  some  sort  of  mental  atti- 
tude patched  up  for  him,  something  to  take  the  place  of 
courage,  a  partial  restoration  of  his  great,  sometimes  rather 
amusing  vanity,  perhaps  they  could  all  bluff  it  out  together. 

That  there  was  vastly  more  iniquity  to  keep  covered  than 
has  been  even  hinted  at  during  the  present  narrative  goes, 
to  any  really  close  observer  of  American  municipal  practices 
of  the  period,  without  saying.  There  were  obscure,  highly 
profitable  alliances  with  powerful  operators  in  the  gambling 
and  liquor-selling  industries,  as  with  the  disagreeable  per- 
sons who  controlled  much  of  the  local  prostitution.  There 
yrere  the  usual  contracts  with  "insiders" ;  among  which  the 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  343 

little  scandal  of  the  reviewing  stands  was  one  of  the  least 
significant.  There  were  connivances  with  large  and  small, 
reputable  and  disreputable  evaders  of  the  law. 

Quakers  knew  well  enough  that  the  local  business  inter- 
ests wouldn't  permit  exposure  that  might  tend  to  "hurt  the 
town."  Even  in  the  rough  give  and  take  of  partisan  poli- 
tics, there  was  little  danger  of  things  going  too  far.  The 
party  in  power  as  good  as  lived  off  the  pretty  well  organ- 
ized graft  of  the  community.  Neither  the  ins  nor  the  outs 
•were  going  to  kill  the  goose  that  laid  the  golden  eggs.  It 
was  more  than  a  tacit  understanding,  it  was  an  iron  tradi- 
tion that  they  should  base  all  their  campaign  fighting,  all 
their  mudslinging,  on  minor  not  major  issues.  .  .  .  All 
this  was  routine  experience.  But  little  Miss  Cantey,  recover- 
ing from  her  long  invaliclism,  with,  unquestionably,  a  spark 
of  old  Jim's  fire  in  her — or,  at  least,  of  his  stubbornness — 
presented  a  problem.  And  Calverly,  an  untamed  genius,  an 
ungoverned,  alarming  force,  hugely  complicated  the  prob- 
lem. There  was  no  telling  how  far  they  might  go.  While 
he  had  spoken  confidently  enough  to  O'Rell  of  "capturing" 
Henry,  he  was  not  over-confident  of  success  in  that  direc- 
tion. He  was  as  far  as  ever  from  a  notion  of  the  man's 
price.  And  a  man  has  got  to  want  something  before  you 
can  buy  him  with  it. 

other  thing,  Calverly 's  tide  had  turned.  There  had 
been  an  extraordinary  newspaper  story.  People  were  talk- 
ing about  it.  Thanks  to  a  shrewd  trick  of  publicity  on  the 
part  of  somebody  or  other — hardly  of  the  man  himself — 
Henry  Calverly  had  become  again,  overnight,  an  appealing 
figure.  And  a  very  strong  one.  A  man  with  a  following. 
With  a  sentimental  following ;  the  worst  kind.  If  the  fellow 
only  knew  it,  he  could  run  for  mayor  on  that  newspaper 
story  and  probably  win. 

liters  felt  a  passing  relief,  in  thinking  back  a  little  way, 
that  he  hadn't  picked  up  the  possibility  of  an  affair  with 

r  Appleby.  If  she  were  able  to  control  or  influence 
her  younger  sister,  it  might  have  been  worth  the  risk.  But 
the  sisters  were  fighting.  It  was  an  out-and-out  break. 


344  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

And  there  was  no  good  in  being  tied  to  the  wrong  one ;  the 
beaten  one. 

All  the  way  down  to  the  senator's  he  ruminated  on  the 
problem.  But  made  no  progress  \\  hatever. 

Apparently  they  could  do  nothing  until  Wednesday.  Go 
into  the  meeting  blind  and  see  what  happened.  Even  at  that 
it  might  work  out.  They  were  shrewd,  experienced  men. 
They  knew  all  the  intricate  ins  and  outs  of  the  property. 
Miriam  Cantey  knew  nothing  of  it.  Calverly  knew  nothing 
of  it.  Besides,  they  hadn't  met  yet,  those  two,  and  had  cer- 
tainly not  made  plans.  Miriam  might  turn  up  at  the  meet- 
ing with  a  brand-new  lawyer,  but  if  the  reports  of  Picker- 
ing's "female  operative"  were  to  be  trusted  she  hadn't  even 
looked  one  up.  The  operative's  reports  seldom  ran  to  an 
hour  later  than  about  eight  o'clock.  But  Miriam  went  to 
bed  early;  read  in  her  room,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  Her 
letters  were  always  left  on  a  table  for  the  maid  to  stamp 
and  post. 

Of  course,  anything  might  happen  before  Wednesday ;  but 
the  chances  weren't  so  bad.  It  was  even  possible  that  Amme 
might  get  a  fresh  hold  on  Cantey  Estate. 

He  told  Senator  Painter  that  things  were  coming  along 
smoothly  enough.  Some  curious  little  personal  problems. 
Required  delicate  handling.  He  was  dwelling  a  little  on  the 
idea  of  having  Mayor  Maclntyre  impeached.  It  would  be 
easy  enough  to  do.  Discredit  him  and  his  whole  machine, 
then  put  up  a  good  respectable  figurehead  at  the  next  elec- 
tion and  sweep  the  city.  It  would  cost  about  a  hundred 
and  twenty  thousand,  he  said,  but  was  a  necessary  prelimi- 
nary to  breaking  finally  the  old  Cantey  Machine  and  swing- 
ing the  state  in  solidly  behind  that  eminent  favorite  son, 
Senator  Painter. 

Bob  Listerly  had  some  sort  of  a  deal  on  with  the  Bryan 
crowd.  Bob  would  give  his  eyes  for  a  seat  in  the  cabinet, 
and  would  accept  one  of  the  lesser  legations — South  America 
or  Asia.  He  would  have  to  be  brought  around  somehow 
to  see  the  light.  Harvey  O'Rell  could  be  dropped  a  little 
later ;  when  they  had  Cantey  Estate  where  they  wanted 
it.  And  then  they'd  simply  own  the  state. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  345 

As  regarded  Mayor  Tim,  Quakers  was  the  victim  of  a 
misleading  impression. 

The  mayor  wasn't  so  sick  as  he  looked.  He  hadn't  had 
much  food  for  a  week,  and  had  been  dosed  with  powerful 
drugs.  Then,  merely  to  lie  abed  a  few  days  robs  the  cheek 
of  its  color  and  the  eye  of  its  luster.  He  was  weak,  yes. 
Which  doubtless  explains  why  the  full  force  of  Quakers' 
revelation  didn't  reach  him  until  some  few  minutes  after 
that  adroit  attorney  had  gone. 

It  is  true  that  Tim  Maclntyre  had  drifted  into  a  state  of 
serious  demoralization.  He  was  a  thief  and  a  drunkard. 
He  had  lost  heart.  But  that  was  mainly,  after  all,  because  he 
was  a  drunkard.  And  by  now  they  had  removed  very 
nearly  the  last  traces  of  alcoholic  poisoning  from  his  system. 

He  sat  for  a  long  time  on  the  edge  of  the  cot ;  until  an- 
other patient  came  up  in  the  elevator,  attended  by  a  nurse. 
Then,  as  if  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  getting  up  any- 
way, he  rose  and  made  his  way  down  to  the  room  they  were 
keeping  him  in. 

Tim  was  a  deeply  ambitious  man.  Quite  as  ambitious  as 
that  fatally  brilliant  little  corporal  whose  life  and  deeds 
dominated  his  day  dreams ;  of  whom  he  thought  every  time 
he  looked  in  a  mirror.  And  he  was  an  actor  who  played 
every  waking  moment  to  an  enraptured  audience  of  one. 
And  he  was  sober. 

That  bit  of  paper  that  had  lain  for  so  many  years  in 
Jim  Cantey's  private  safe  with  his  signature  at  the  foot  of 
it  was  the  one  incriminating  document  now  out  against  him. 
Incriminating  acts  and  entanglements  weren't,  after  all,  so 
bad.  Not  quite.  They  could  almost  always  be  explained 
away,  or  muddled  over,  or  so  involved  with  the  entangle- 
ments of  other  men  in  the  public  eye  as  to  force  support 
from  those  others. 

liut  the  thought  of  that  paper,  out  of  the  safe  again,  and 
again  in  the  hands  of  a  young  man  who  didn't,  couldn't 
play  the  game — had,  apparently,  never  so  much  as  heard  of 
the  game — brought  him  to  a  state  of  real  terror.  He  was 
very  quiet  now.  He  moved  aimlessly  about  his  room ;  stared 
out  the  window  for  a  while;  finally  stood  before  the  mirror, 


346  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

muttering  little  orations  out  of  a  sternly  set  face.  The 
thought  came  swiftly  to  be  a  burning  thing  v/ithin  him. 
And  at  last,  after  perhaps  an  hour  of  this  curious,  not 
wholly  sane  performance,  he  changed  his  clothes,  buttoned 
an  overcoat  about  his  shivering  frame,  turned  up  the  col- 
lar, and  slipped  out  of  the  building. 

To  an  attendant  he  remarked,  rather  unnecesfarily,  that 
he  thought  he'd  take  a  little  walk. 

The  fire  burned  hotter  and  higher  within  him.  He  was 
perturbed  to  find  his  body  weak  and  shaky  on  his  legs. 

The  hospital  was  in  a  pleasant  countryside,  the  outskirts 
of  a  small  village. 

Across  the  street  from  the  railway  station  was  a  saloon. 
He  went  in  there  and  drank  Scotch.  It  seemed  to  help. 
He  ate  greedily  of  the  "free  lunch."  This  helped,  too.  Then 
he  drank  some  more. 

The  men  here  knew  he  was  from  the  hospital,  he  felt  sure. 
He  even  thought  they  recognized  him.  This,  somehow,  was 
an  alarming  thought.  He  drank  more  Scotch. 

He  decided  that  tobacco  would  soothe  his  outrageously 
jumpy  nerves,  and  filled  a  vest  pocket  with  the  best  cigars 
he  could  find. 

It  seemed  unwise  to  drink  any  more  in  here,  so  he  walked 
a  block  down  the  street  to  another  saloon. 

When  he  boarded  the  train,  and  settled  in  a  rear  seat  of 
the  smoking-car,  with  a  newspaper  across  his  knees,  his 
courage  was  high.  And  confused  bold  projects  were  form- 
ing in  his  brain.  Napoleon,  a  ghostly,  majestic  figure,  moved 
in  and  out  among  these  thoughts. 

One  project — the  one,  I  believe,  that  he  thought,  mostly, 
he  was  going  to  work  out — was  to  go  straight  to  this  fellow 
Calverly  and  talk  turkey  to  him.  Show  him  who  was  who. 
Face  him  as  man  to  man. 

That  was  the  idea — face  him  as  man  to  man. 

But  this  notion  got  itself  confused  in  queer  ways  with 
other  notions.  .  .  . 

i 

Calverly  received  a  telegram  that  afternoon  from  Hum- 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  347 

phrey,  stating  that  he  and  Guard  were  on  their  way  from 
New  York  and  would  be  at  the  Cantey  Square  House  before 
evening.  He  went  over  there  from  the  public  library. 
They  had  registered,  it  appeared,  but  were  not  in  their 
rooms.  He  wandered  about  the  lobby  and  restaurant,  and 
looked  down-stairs  in  barber  shop  and  billiard  room,  but 
without  finding  them.  Then  he  caught  a  Hill  car  and  went 
back  to  the  boarding-house. 

It  was  rather  exciting  to  think  that  Guard  was  here. 
Hump  had  talked  him  into  it,  of  course.  A  dear  old  boy, 
Hump  was !  .  .  .  Guard,  then,  had  never  really  lost  in- 
terest in  him!  Had  gone  to  all  this  trouble  to  see  him  and 
the  new  book  !  It  was  a  thought  to  put  heart  into  a  man ! 

It  was  the  more  stirring  because  the  library  had  again,  as 
usual,  proved  disappointing.  Once  you  got  away  from  Bret 
Harte  and  Mark  Twain — and  his  own  narrative  was  well 
past  their  period  now — there  was  little  in  the  way  of  honest 
pictures  of  the  living  West.  Oh,  cowboys,  and  express  rob- 
bers, and  that !  But  when  it  came  down  to  actual  study  of 
the  men  and  events  centering  about  early  railway  develop- 
ment and  the  cattle  barons  and  the  political  struggles  there 
was  next  to  nothing.  Hardly  more  than  the  first  one  or  two 
of  Frank  Norris's  novels.  The  biographies  and  autobiog- 
raphies were  all  false  from  cover  to  cover,  were  all  neatly 
tinted  pictures  of  public  benefactors  and  eminent  statesmen. 
The  muckrakers  came  much  nearer  the  truth,  in  spite  of- 
their  own  peculiar  strain  of  falsity.  These  eager,  indignant 
young  analysts  of  municipal  and  state  corruption  and  of  the 
stirring  fights  of  great  and  growing  corporations  to  kill  off 
competition  and  to  get  and  keep  financial  and  political  power 
ran  truer  to  life  as  you  saw  it,  felt  it,  about  you. 

Hump  and  Guard  were  not  at  the  boarding-house.  Not 
yet.  He  scanned  the  porch  as  he  crossed  the  lawn.  He 
looked  into  the  parlor;  then  went  on  up  the  two  flights  to 
his  room. 

He  opened  the  door ;  stepped  over  the  sill ;  stopped  there, 
balancing  on  his  forward  foot,  while  his  breath  abruptly 
failed  him. 


348  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

A  man  stood  behind  the  marble-topped  table,  buttoned  up 
to  chin  and  ears  in  an  overcoat,  soft  hat  pulled  down  over 
his  eyes. 

The  table  drawer  was  open ;  papers  were  spilled  about  the 
floor. 

The  intruder,  too,  stood  motionless.  Henry  wondered, 
during  that  brief  moment  of  lightning-like  thought,  why  he 
didn't  shoot.  Probably  he  would  in  a  moment. 

Then,  his  breath  about  restored,  Henry  made  the  curious 
but  interesting  discovery  that  he  didn't  particularly  care 
•whether  the  man  shot  or  not.  He  stepped  on  into  the  room 
and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

There  was  something  hauntingly  familiar  about  the  fel- 
low; something  interesting  in  the  rather  dramatic  pose, 
hinting  at  bluster,  with  chin  drawn  down  and  shoulders 
high. 


'If  you  don't  move  quicker  I'll  beat  your  skull  in." 


CHAPTER  FORTY 

Events  of  on  Evening,  Including  a  Fight  and  a  Pursuit; 
with  a  Sidelight  on  How  Men  Feel  about  Dying 

DURING  a  curious  breathless  moment  the  two  men  stood 
without  moving. 

It  was  not  fear  that  held  Calverly  motionless,  but  sur- 
prise that  was  mixed  with  contempt.  And  the  excitement 
that  at  first  tightened  his  nerves  was  rising  swiftly  into 
anger. 

On  only  a  few  occasions  in  Henry  Calverly 's  life  did  he 
become  so  angry  as  to  forget  himself  utterly.  The  present 
occasion  was  to  take  its  place  as  one  of  these. 

He  sprang  forward,  beat  aside  two  ineffectually  waving 
arms,  and  snatched  off  the  burglar's  hat,  disclosing  the  Na- 
poleonic head  of  Mayor  Tim  Maclntyre. 

"Good  lord !"  said  Calverly. 

The  mayor's  reply  was  not  intelligible,  though  he  seemed 
to  be  saying  something  or  other. 

"Adding  burglary  to  your  other  little  crimes,  eh?"  Cal- 
verly's  voice  was  deliberate,  caustic,  almost  quiet. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it !"  muttered  the  mayor. 
Adding,  with  a  touch  of  bluster,  "Give  me  back  my  hat !" 

The  hat,  however,  was  not  returned.  Not  at  all.  Calverly 
still  had  it  when  he  left  the  house.  It  must  have  disappeared 
during  the  little  scene  on  the  front  lawn. 

Calverly  was  confronting  the  man  now,  taking  in  the 
situation.  The  closet  door  hadn't  been  opened. 

"Well,"  asked  the  mayor,  "what  about  it?  What  you 
going  to  do  ?" 

"I'm  trying  to  make  up  my  mind  whether  to  kick  you 
down-stairs  before  the  police  come." 

"The  police  won't  touch  me !" 

349 


350  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"They  will,  or  I'll  find  out  why.  And  if  they  don't  I'll  just 
about  beat  you  to  death." 

"Oh,  hell,  Calverly,  what's  the  good  o'  that  kind  o'  talk !" 

There  was  no  reply  to  this.  Calverly  was  thinking.  The 
telephone  was  in  the  front  hall,  down-stairs. 

"Open  out  your  pockets,"  he  commanded,  quietly.  "All 
of  them." 

"Look  here — "  the  mayor  began,  rather  weakly. 

Calverly  glanced  about.  On  the  table  stood  a  pint  bot- 
tle of  ink.  He  reached  for  this;  clasped  it  by  the  neck. 

"Turn  them  inside  out,"  he  said. 

"But  there's  private  papers — and  money,  and — Now  you 
look  here  .  .  ." 

"If  you  don't  move  quicker,"  said  Calverly,  weighing  the 
bottle  in  his  hand,  "I'll  beat  your  skull  in." 

"You  mean  to  say  you're  going  to  take  my  own — " 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Calverly,  "I  just  want  to  see  what  you've 
got  of  mine." 

"Not  a  thing!    Honest!" 

"I'll  decide  that  when  I  see  what  you  have  got." 

A  hand  mirror  lay  near  the  edge  of  the  bureau.  Mayor 
Tim's  wandering  gaze,  searching  for  a  possible  weapon, 
rested  on  it.  He  moved,  sidelong,  toward  it. 

"Stay  where  you  are !''  said  Calverly. 

Then  the  mayor  obeyed ;  meekly  enough  turned  his  pock- 
ets inside  out.  Papers,  gloves,  money,  a  note-book,  keys, 
a  handkerchief,  a  wallet,  pencils  and  other  intimately  mas- 
culine articles  lay  about  him  on  the  floor.  His  watch  dan- 
gled from  its  chain.  He  glanced  covertly  at  his  captor. 

"All  right,"  said  the  latter.  "Pick  them  up."  And  then, 
"Walk  down-stairs  ahead  of  me.  Remember,  walk,  don't 
run." 

Again  his  honor  obeyed.  They  went  down  the  upper 
flight  in  silence. 

On  the  second-floor  landing  two  dim  figures  moved  aside 
to  let  them  pass. 

"Hen,"  cried  the  taller  of  these,  "what  on  earth !     .     .     ." 

The  voice  was  that  of  Humphrey  Weaver.  The  other 
man  was,  of  course,  Mr.  Guard. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  351 

"Oh,  hello!"  said  Calverly.  And  to  Mr.  Guard,  "How  do 
you  do !"  To  his  captive  he  said  then,  "Stand  there  a  min- 
ute. Against  the  wall." 

"It's  the  mayor,"  he  explained.  "If  you'll  just  wait  a  lit- 
tle. ...  I  can't  very  well  visit  with  you  until.  .  .  . 
Hump,  come  down  and  telephone  for  a  policeman,  will 
you?" 

The  two  men  stared  at  him. 

Calverly,  suddenly  aware  of  the  bottle  in  his  hand,  gave 
it  to  the  publisher,  saying,  "If  you  don't  mind.  .  .  ." 

Then  he  marched  his  man  on  down  the  stairs  past  a  group 
of  startled  fellow-boarders,  out-of-doors  and  a  little  way 
along  the  path  to  a  small  tree,  which  he  studied  critically. 

Guard  followed. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  Calverly,  thoughtfully,  "we  can  an- 
chor him  to  this.  Just  set  down  the  bottle,  will  you.  Now, 
put  his  legs  around  the  tree.  No,  bend  the  right  foot  under 
so  that  it  catches  inside  the  left  knee." 

The  publisher  had  forgotten  the  boyhood  trick  of  so  fast- 
ening another's  legs  about  a  tree  that  he  can  not  get  up  with- 
out help,  but  Calverly  made  a  rapid  job  of  it. 

Once  the  mayor  struggled.  Calverly  hit  him  on  the  nose, 
and  he  quieted  down. 

Humphrey  came  out  then  and  surveyed  the  odd  little 
scene. 

"Cop'll  be  here  in  a  minute,"  he  said.  "Who  did  you  say 
it  was?" 

"The  mayor." 

Guard — his  first  words — asked,  explosively: 

"The  what?" 

"The  mayor." 

"But—" 

"He  broke  into  my  room.  Though  I  guess  the  door  wasn't 
locked.  He  was  after  some  papers  there." 

"But  that's  burglary." 

Calverly  said,  "Oh,  yes!" 

"But  if  it's  the  mayor — "  this  from  Humphrey,  who  was 
on  one  knee,  studying,  quite  impersonally,  the  abject  figure 
embracing  the  tree — "the  police  may  not  want  to  take  him." 


352  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"They  will,"  said  Calverly.    "They've  got  to." 

"They  won't,"  put  in  Tim  Maclntyre. 

"You  keep  quiet !"  said  Calverly. 

The  mayor  kept  quiet. 

A  large,  rather  fat  policeman  came  hurrying  across  the 
lawn. 

"I  want  this  man  arrested,"  said  Calverly. 

''What's  the  charge?"  asked  the  officer,  glancing  curiously 
at  the  human  heap  at  the  base  of  the  sapling. 

"Burglary."    This  from  Humphrey. 

The  officer  reached  down,  with  a — "Come  up  here,  you !" 
— jerked  the  man  to  his  feet. 

"Ouch!"  cried  the  man. 

"You  sure  had  him  locked  in!"  remarked  the  officer. 
Then,  "Good  God,  it's  Mayor  Tim !" 

"Yes,"  said  Calverly.    "It's  the  mayor." 

"But  see  here — "  The  officer  relaxed  his  hold  on  hia 
honor's  collar.  "You  said  burglary!" 

"Yes,  burglary !    I  caught  him  in  my  room." 

"But — Mayor  Tim  .  .  .  burglary  .  .  .  Oh,  you're 
crazy !" 

"What'd  I  tell  you !"  cried  his  honor. 

"Keep  quiet !"  said  Calverly. 

The  officer  turned  on  Calverly.  "What  I'd  like  to  know 
is — who  are  you?" 

Humphrey,  a  quick,  authoritative  person,  broke  in  here. 

"The  man  was  caught  in  the  act,  officer,"  he  said. 

The  only  reply  the  nonplussed  policeman  could  offer,  at 
the  moment,  was  a  gruff,  "Aw,  gawn !" 

"Are  we  to  understand  that  you  refuse  to  arrest  him?" 
Humphrey  went  on. 

"Refuse  to  arrest  him?"  The  officer  was  puffing  a  little 
now.  "Say,  what  do  you  think  I  am,  anyway !  ...  I'd 
like  to  know  who  you  all  are,  that's  what  I'd  like  to  know ! 
There's  something  queer  here!  ...  I  reckon  you're 
strangers  in  town.  And  beating  up  our  mayor!  The  best 
mayor  the  city's  ever  had,  bar  none!" 

The  best  mayor,  rapidly  taking  in  the  situation  and  find- 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  353 

ing  it  turning  momentarily  to  his  advantage,  began  moving, 
slowly,  cautiously,  a  step  at  a  time,  toward  the  street. 

Calverly,  half  listening  to  the  policeman's  harangue, 
watched  him. 

The  mayor,  feeling  safer  every  moment,  now  took  several 
rapid  steps ;  then  turned  to  see  the  effect. 

It  was  then  that  Henry  sprang  at  him. 

The  policeman,  suddenly  turning  and  divining  his  intent, 
would  have  followed,  but  Guard  and  Humphrey,  moved  by 
one  of  those  perhaps  telepathic  impulses  that  on  occasions 
of  high  feeling  will  move  two  minds  as  one,  stepped  in 
his  way. 

It  can  not  be  said,  I  think,  that  either  of  them  laid  a  hand 
•upon  this  representative  of  the  majesty  of  the  law ;  they 
were  merely  in  the  way.  But  they  managed  to  stay  in  the 
way  for  some  little  time.  At  any  rate,  the  fat  policeman 
succeeded  in  making  exactly  no  progress  whatever  toward 
the  harassed  chief  of  all  the  city's  officers ;  until,  that  is, 
with  a  good  deal  of  puffing  and  sotto  vocc  profanity  he  con- 
trived to  get  his  night  stick  free  of  his  belt. 

Every  grown  man  is  a  compound  of  many  and  diverse 
pasts.  Of  Henry's  pasts  one  had  been  of  mildly  athletic 
nature.  Those  who  knew  him  in  earlier  narratives  will  re- 
call that  he  had,  in  his  high-school  period,  local  fame  in 
Sunbury,  Illinois,  as  a  sprinter.  He  had  also  played  foot- 
ball, baseball  and  tennis.  And,  in  a  healthy,  boyish  way, 
without  acquiring  marked  skill,  he  had  boxed. 

He  was  boxing  now ;  rather  neatly,  with  his  thumbs  bent 
down  out  of  the  way,  landing  many  clean  blows  on  the 
cheek,  nose  and  jaw  of  the  bewildered,  inarticulately  angry 
mayor.  He  first  backed  him  into  a  tree  and  hit  solid 
straight-arm  blows  with  plenty  of  shoulder  and  back  in 
them ;  then,  when  the  mayor  ducked  low  in  an  effort  to 
dodge  away,  uppercut  him  savagely  and  sent  him  reeling. 

Calverly,  hot  after  him,  jerked  him  around  and  raised  a 
lump  over  the  right  cheek-bone.  By  this  time  his  hands 
were  slippery  with  blood ;  he  rubbed  them  on  his  coat,  then 
sprang  again  at  the  unsteady  chief  magistrate  of  the  city. 


354  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

But  that  worthy  had  enough.  He  seemed  to  be  sobbing; 
at  any  rate  queer  sounds  came  from  him.  He  stumbled  back- 
ward, turned,  and  ran,  gradually  finding  his  feet  as  he  went. 

Calverly  followed.  Humphrey  came  after  him,  then 
Guard,  and  last,  steadily  losing  ground,  the  policeman. 

It  was  a  curious  performance,  this  of  Calverly's,  a  sudden 
breaking  out  into  action  of  feelings  that  had  been  so  long 
bottled  up  within  his  troubled  spirit.  Whatever  these  feel- 
ings were,  there  could  be  no  question  that  they  were  all 
coming  out.  With  every  blow  his  suddenly,  newly  mascu- 
line soul  exulted.  He  was  striking  the  one  man  who  more 
than  any  other  symbolized  in  his  person  the  loosely  corrupt 
organization  of  the  city.  It  seemed  as  if  each  blow  landed 
not  only  on  the  mayor  but  as  well  on  Harvey  O'Rell  and 
Oswald  Qualters  and  little  Mr.  Amme  and  R.  B.  Listerly, 
together  with  all  the  locally  dominant  promoters  and  specu- 
lators who  loved  money  and  hated  truth.  The  fire  of  a  long 
line  of  St.  Georges  and  Martin  Luthers  and  John  Browns 
and  other  great  nonconformists  whom  men  have  called  im- 
practical burned  in  his  eyes.  He  was  hitting  out  for  old, 
big  Jim  Cantey,  who  hadn't  been  a  hypocrite;  for  Miriam, 
who  knew  only  truth;  in  an  odd  half -conscious  way  for 
Frank  Winterbeck  who  wasn't  on  the  News  any  more ;  for 
all  that  was  honest,  natural,  in  a  city  of  false  faces;  for 
elemental  justice  in  a  city  of  law  and  intrigue.  Curiously, 
as  he  ran  after  the  mayor,  down  the  back  slope  of  the  Hill 
toward  the  factories  and  the  lower  lumber  yards  and  the 
river,  his  thoughts  dwelt,  more  than  on  Miriam,  more  than 
on  himself,  on  this  Frank  Winterbeck,  whom  he  knew 
hardly  at  all.  Unexpectedly,  all  in  a  moment,  in  his  brightly 
lighted  mind,  Winterbeck,  too,  became  a  symbol. 

Mayor  Tim,  once  his  head  cleared,  ran  surprisingly  well. 
Calverly,  who  had  put  out  the  greater  effort,  was  winded, 
and  gained  not  a  yard.  Toward  the  end  of  the  race,  indeed, 
he  lost. 

Mayor  Tim  turned  up  an  alley.  Calverly  followed.  Hum- 
phrey missed  the  turn  and  ran  straight  on  to  the  muddy  road 
along  the  wharves,  as  did  Guard  and  the  fat  policeman. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  355 

The  mayor  looked  back,  paused,  made  a  false  start  or 
two,  then  rounded  the  corner,  crossed  the  river  road  under 
a  buzzing  arc  light,  ran  down  the  mud  flats  between  a  lum- 
ber pier  and  the  westernmost  frame  building  of  Will  Apple- 
by's  manufacturing  plant,  let  himself  rather  carefully  down 
the  low  clay  bank  and  waded  into  the  river. 

Calverly  paused  on  the  bank.  His  first  thought  was  that 
the  man  purposed  wading  around  the  pier  to  find  some  tem- 
porary hiding-place,  and  he  considered  going  out  there  on 
the  pier.  It  would  be  easy  enough  to  follow  the  man's 
clumsy  movements. 

But  he  didn't  turn  around  the  end  of  the  pier;  he  kept 
on  wading  out,  until  the  water  was  waist  deep,  and  then 
breast  deep.  A  moment  more  and  he  would  be  stepping  off 
the  channel  bank  into  the  deep  current. 

So  that  was  it!  He  meant  to  drown  himself.  A  poor 
cheap  little  soul — giving  up  miserably ! 

Calverly  watched  him  as  he  would  have  watched  a  char- 
acter in  a  play;  except  that  it  was  hardly  interesting.  He 
didn't  care. 

Then  a  policeman  appeared,  at  the  edge  of  the  pier,  half- 
way out,  between  two  lumber  piles;  not  far,  indeed,  from 
the  wading  figure.  He  shouted  something. 

The  mayor  looked  up ;  hesitated,  then  pressed  on. 

The  officer  shouted  again.  This  time  Calverly  caught  his 
words.  They  were : 

"Come  out  of  there,  or  I'll  kill  you." 

And  he  caught,  too,  the  shine  of  a  revolver  barrel  in  the 
light  of  the  street  lamp. 

Once  more  the  mayor  looked  up ;  just  the  head  and  shoul- 
ders and  balancing  arms  of  a  wet  shivering  man  who  was 
determined  to  kill  himself.  And  then,  in  fear  of  being 
killed,  he  came  slowly  out. 

The  officer  met  him  at  the  bank ;  spoke  roughly ;  then 
recognized  him  and  temporarily  lost  his  voice. 

Calverly  said : 

"I  want  this  man  locked  up." 


356  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"What  for?"  asked  the  officer,  gruffly,  "attempted 
suicide  ?" 

"If  you  like.    And  burglary." 

"Burglary?" 

"Yes.    I  caught  him  in  my  room  and  chased  him  here." 

"But  this  gentleman  is  mayor  of  the  city." 

The  mayor,  dripping,  shivering,  the  last  shreds  of  his  self- 
respect  fallen  away,  now  came  unexpectedly  out  for  the 
prosecution. 

"I'm  not  a  burglar!"  he  cried. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Calverly  wearily,  "you'll  deny  that  I 
caught  you  in  my  room." 

"It  wasn't  burglary !"  insisted  the  mayor. 

"What's  your  name  for  it?" 

"Self-defense!  .  .  ."  He  rather  fancied  this.  "Self- 
defense,  that's  what  it  was !  You've  got  Jim  Cantey's  papers 
up  there.  My  good  name's  involved.  My  good  name ! 
That's  why  I  was  in  your  room,  and  you  know  it !" 

"He  came  to  steal  a  document,"  Calverly  explained,  in 
that  same  world-weary  tone,  to  the  policeman. 

The  others  joined  them  now. 

The  two  policemen  drew  apart,  obviously  in  disagree- 
ment ;  and  the  mayor  sat  miserably  on  a  snubbing  post. 

"Look  here,"  he  broke  out,  "can't  you  see  I'll  catch  cold, 
sitting  around  here  like  this !" 

The  second  policeman  returned,  obviously  much  per- 
plexed. 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can  lock  up  the  mayor,"  he  remarked. 
Then,  more  roughly,  "You  gentlemen  had  better  give  me 
your  names  and  addresses." 

"Of  course  he  can't  lock  me  up,"  cried  the  shivering  per- 
son on  the  snubbing  post.  "Anybody  could  see  that !" 

"You  can  put  him  under  surveillance,"  remarked  Hum- 
phrey, in  a  manner  of  quiet  authority.  "He  tried  to  commit 
suicide.  You  were  a  witness  to  that.  Something's  the  mat- 
ter. Either  he's  a  criminal  or  else  he's  insane.  It  won't  do 
to  leave  him  at  large." 

The  mayor  looked  up  at  Humphrey  now,  shivering,  terror 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  357 

in  his  eyes.  He  saw  a  tall  vigorous  man  in  New  York 
clothes,  a  man  accustomed  to  be  heard  with  respect.  .  .  . 
He  turned  away ;  sat  a  moment  longer;  then,  as  if  a  sudden, 
unexpected  hope  had  come  to  his  fuddled  brain,  got  up, 
caught  Calverly's  arm  and  pulled  him  aside. 

"Just  a  minute,"  he  was  saying.  "Just  a  minute!  You 
and  I  understand  each  other.  We  can  talk  as  man  to  man. 
.  .  .  I  know  all  about  you.  You're  clever ;  You've  out- 
witted us.  I  know  it.  O'Rell  knows  it.  Quakers  knows  it. 
You've  been  the  smart  one.  You  went  straight  to  the  girl. 
And  that's  where  you  turned  the  trick." 

Calverly  struggled  with  an  impulse  to  hit  him  again.  But 
the  mayor,  all  eyes  and  all  nerves,  caught  the  quick  stiffening 
of  the  young  man's  shoulders  and  the  slight  drawing  up  of 
the  right  arm,  and  hurriedly  came  to  the  point. 

"But  never  mind  how  you  did  it.  Let  that  stand.  Here's 
the  question  now — you  hold  the  whip-hand.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  with  it?  Are  you  going  to  act  like  a  decent  fel- 
low, or  are  you  going  to  tear  things  down,  destroy  confi- 
dence, disrupt  business  and  array  class  against  class  ?  That's 
what  I  want  to  know !  Are  you  going  to  do  that  ?  Or  are 
you  going  to  be  a  decent  fellow?" 

Something  of  the  old  Napoleonic  look  was  coming  back 
to  Tim  Maclntyre  as  oratory  set  in.  And  his  arms  spread 
in  a  sweeping  gesture. 

Humphrey  drew  near.  Then  Guard.  Finally  the  two 
policemen. 

"I  don't  deny  you  can  make  trouble.  Just  at  the  moment 
you  hold  the  whip-hand.  Just  at  the  moment.  .  .  .  I'll 
be  frank  with  you.  Let's  call  it  quits,  you  and  I.  Let's 
come  to  terms.  I'll  play  fair.  Just  tell  me  what  you  want 
me  to  do.  I'll  be  reasonable.  If  you  say  so,  I'll  resign.  If 
you  ask  it,  I'll  pack  up  and  leave  town.  All  I  ask  is  that 
you  act  like  a  decent  fellow  and  give  me  a  chance  to  do  the 
same." 

Humphrey's  eyes  were  bright  with  eager  interest.  He 
watched  Henry,  wondering  what  on  earth  the  boy  had  been 
up  to.  Always  a  surprise,  was  Henry ;  a  creature  of  amaz- 


358  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

ing  contrasts ;  now  fire,  now  ashes ;  now  an  outcast,  now  a 
dictator.  There  was,  there  had  always  been,  a  dynamic 
quality  in  him.  Never,  for  one  moment,  had  he  been  com- 
monplace, never  uninteresting.  Never  had  he  surrendered 
to  the  world.  Now,  in  some  extraordinary  manner,  he 
seemed  to  be  riding  it  as  a  conqueror  rides.  And  yet,  he 
was  just  Henry ;  standing  thoughtfully  there  under  the  street 
light ;  his  clothing  shabby  as  ever. 

And,  curiously,  in  this  moment  of  real  drama,  Calverly, 
by  his  very  quiet,  inspired  confidence.  Amid  the  routine  and 
trickery  of  ordinary  business,  as  among  the  social  conven- 
tions, he  had  always  been  helpless  as  a  lost  child.  But  here 
and  now,  where  men  spoke  not  from  behind  the  barriers  of 
convention  and  worldly  habit  but  straight  out  of  naked 
souls,  he  was  at  home.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  fact. 
Humphrey  felt  it ;  found  it  thrilling.  Guard  felt  it,  and 
stood  in  respectful  silence.  The  policemen,  each  in  his 
clumsy  way,  felt  it  and  waited  out  the  scene.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  that  Tim  Maclntyre,  in  this  his  moment  of 
utter  catastrophe,  knew  whom  he  had  to  talk  to. 

Calverly  turned  to  Humphrey,  after  long  thought,  and 
remarked,  with  a  sort  of  casual  patience : 

"He  wants  me  to  let  him  get  away  with  all  he's  stolen." 

A  moment  longer  he  considered  this ;  then  said : 

"Maclntyre,  if  I  let  you  go  now,  will  you  come  and  see 
me  to-morrow?" 

The  mayor  swallowed,  straining  a  little;  then  nodded 
quickly.  And  after  that  he  said,  huskily,  "Yes,  I  will.  I'll 
give  you  my  hand  on  it." 

"No,"  said  Calverly,  almost  impersonally,  "I  won't  take 
your  hand.  But  I  think — yes,  I'll  take  your  word." 

The  mayor's  reply  provided  a  not  unfitting  conclusion  to 
this  grotesque,  all  but  fantastic  little  scene.  It  was : 

"Thank  you." 


CHAPTER  FORTY-ONE 

Collateral  Matters;  Including  Mr.  Amme's  Call  on  Miriam, 

Mr.  Hitt's  Activities,  and  Further  Developments 

of  the  Fever  Called  Love 

AND  on  the  same  evening,  at  the  same  hour,  Mr.  Amme 
called  at  the  Cantey  home. 

As  he  had  come  frankly  on  business,  Miriam  received 
him  in  the  study;  entering  it  from  her  own  sitting-room, 
by  the  narrow  door. 

He  wore  a  manner  of  almost  breathless  solemnity;  and 
carried  a  portfolio  that  bulged  with  papers.  These  he  ar- 
ranged on  the  desk  in  neat  piles,  taking  a  little  time  to  do  it, 
delaying  as  long  as  he  well  could  the  talk  that  had  to  be  gone 
through. 

Miriam's  color  was  high,  her  eyes  were  bright.  He  found 
her  a  little  impatient  beneath  the  surface  courtesy;  pre- 
occupied, rather  baffling.  Several  times  she  seemed  to  catch 
herself  tapping  nervously  on  the  arm  of  the  Morris  chair 
and  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap. 

He  spoke,  gravely,  of  the  pleasure  it  gave  him  to  see  her 
so  nearly  herself  after  all  the  invalid  years. 

She  smiled,  pleasantly  enough;  but  seemed  to  take  the 
improvement  rather  for  granted,  he  thought.  It  was  clear 
enough  that  she  wasn't  living  in  the  past. 

"Up  to  now,"  he  began,  then  cleared  his  throat  and  pulled 
at  his  neat  little  beard — "up  to  this  week,  the  affairs  of  your 
father's  estate  have  been  managed  by  the  trustees — " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  quickly,  "I  know." 

He  pressed  on: 

"That  is,  by  Mr.  Listerly,  Mr.  O'Rell  and  myself.  These 
affairs  are  anything  but  simple.  They  include  watching  the 
stock  and  bond  markets  in  order  to  protect  your  father's 
large  investments;  also  exercising  a  controlling  interest  in 

359 


360  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

many  corporations,  including  the  Cantey  Line,  the  railroad 
companies,  the  Cantey  National  Bank,  County  Railways,  the 
News,  and  many  others.  In  addition,  these  large  business 
interests  entail  some  political  responsibility." 

He  paused  and  looked  at  her.  It  had  seemed  to  him  that 
so  formidable  a  statement  might  well  bring  her  to  her  senses. 
But  so  far  as  he  could  see,  it  brought  no  result  at  all.  She 
sat  there,  all  alert,  brightly  watching  him,  but  without  any 
humility  that  he  could  detect.  There  was  no  way  of  telling 
what  might  be  in  her  mind.  Something,  surely ;  her  eyes 
•were  so  brightly  blue.  He  thought,  caught  by  such  a  wave 
of  emotional  memory  as  seldom  disturbed  his  orderly  little 
mind,  of  moments  in  years  long  gone  by  when  James  H. 
Cantey's  blue  eyes  had  looked  like  that.  They  had  always 
been  a  little  difficult  to  face,  the  Cantey  eyes. 

"If  you  will  permit  me  to  offer  a  word  of  counsel,"  .  .  . 
he  paused. 

"Of  course,"  she  said. 

"Well,  you  will  find  it  absolutely  necessary  to  employ  the 
best  legal  advice  available.  Each  of  the  large  interests  pre- 
sents complicated  problems  all  its  own.  The  best  business 
judgment  you  are  likely  to  find — and  hired  business  judg- 
ment is  never  the  best — will  be  none  too  good.  A  business 
property,  Miss  Miriam,  is  no  better  than  its  management. 
It  can  not  take  care  of  itself.  There  isn't  one  of  the  Cantey 
properties  but  what  has,  at  some  time,  taxed  your  father's 
ability  and  courage.  Since  his  death  they  have  made  heavy 
demands  on  the  time  and  energy  of  the  trustees." 

He  cleared  his  throat  again.  He  didn't  seem  to  be  pro- 
gressing. He  went  on : 

"Each  of  these  properties  must  be  guided  with  a  firm 
progressive  hand  or  it  will  slip  backward  into  demoraliza- 
tion and  serious  loss.  Miss  Miriam,  if  at  any  time  Mr. 
O'Rell  and  Mr.  Listerly  and  I  had  neglected  this  very  exact- 
ing trust  your  income  would  have  been  very  materially  af- 
fected. Because  we  have  not  neglected  it,  your  income  has 
grown  instead  of  shrinking." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  361 

He  laid  a  hand  on  one  little  pile  of  papers. 

"Here,  for  instance,  is  County  Railways.  The  annual 
meeting  is  right  upon  us.  Mr.  O'Rell  will  render  an  account 
of  his  stewardship  and  will  ask  continued  support.  He  will 
expect,  and  properly,  that  his  very  complicated  problems 
will  be  dealt  with  by  minds  fitted  to  understand  them.  If 
the  support  of  Cantey  Estate  should  be  withdrawn  from  him, 
or  if  his  relation  to  the  estate  should  be  in  any  way  altered, 
the  entire  property  would  quickly  be  affected.  There  would 
soon  be  a  noticeable  change  in  the  morale  of  the  company. 
Discipline  would  suffer.  Laxity  and  waste  would  take  the 
place  of  the  present  sharp  economy.  The  company,  which 
has  very  large  dividend  and  interest  charges  to  meet,  would 
soon  be  facing  losses  instead  of  profits." 

"What  do  you  think  of  Mr.  O'Rell?"  asked  Miriam. 

Mr.  Amme  controlled  a  nervous  impulse  to  start.  But  he 
was  surprised,  distinctly.  Just  why  had  she  asked  that 
question?  And  was  there  not  hostility  in  it?  He  rather 
thought  there  was.  His  brows  drew  together.  He  spoke 
slowly,  carefully. 

"It  is  easy  to  criticize  a  man  in  Mr.  O'Rell's  position.  He 
must  have  vigor  and  firmness.  He  makes  enemies.  But 
County  Railways  has  not  passed  a  dividend  since  your  father 
placed  him  in  charge." 

This  seemed  to  him  utterly  convincing.  But  her  expres- 
sion did  not  change  as  much  as  he  hoped. 

"Here,  you  see,"  he  said,  "we  are  confronted  by  an  imme- 
diate problem.  Either  you  must  attend  the  annual  meeting 
of  County  Railways  or  you  must  place  your  proxies  in  com- 
petent hands  to  be  voted  for  you.  Either  you  must  under- 
take the  management — it  amounts  to  that — or  you  must 
trust  others  to  do  it  for  you.  The  present  trustees  will 
attend  the  meeting  as  individual  stockholders,  but  will  no 
longer  be  empowered  to  speak  for  Cantey  Estate." 

She  considered  this,  or  seemed  to.    Then  asked : 

"What  do  you  think  I  ought  to  do,  Mr.  Amme?'' 

"You  wish  my  advice?" 


362  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"Yes." 

"Well — I  can  only  say  that  I — think  you  ought  to  renew 
the  trust." 

"You  do?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  see  how  you  can  possibly  undertake  to 
manage  all  these  properties  yourself." 

"It  would  be  difficult,  wouldn't  it?"  She  caught  her 
breath ;  laughed  a  little. 

"Very.    Really  impossible." 

"And  I  ought  to  make  up  my  mind  pretty  soon  ?" 

"Miss  Miriam — really — at  this  moment  everything  hangs 
in  suspense.  Plans  must  be  made.  There  is  really  no  time 
at  all." 

"Hmm !  .  .  .  You  think  the  trust  should  be  made  up 
of  the  same  men  as  in  the  past  ?" 

"Well."  .  .  .  He  shot  a  keen  glance  at  her ;  what  was 
she  getting  at?  Did  she  know  more  than  he  supposed? 
Had  that  irresponsible  young  fellow  been  talking  again ;  or 
(it  was  barely  possible)  had  the  powerful  Cantey  mind  come 
to  life  with  her  improved  health?  .  .  .  "Well,  I  could 
withdraw.  But  I  really  don't  see  how  Mr.  O'Rell  or  Mr. 
Listerly  could." 

"But  who  would  take  your  place,  Mr.  Amme?  I  suppose 
it  would  have  to  be  some  one  who  understands  tlie  legal 
side  of  things." 

"Naturally." 

"And  the  banking  interests." 

"Well—" 

"Are  you  thinking  of  Mr.  Quakers?" 

He  was  silenced.     She  looked  like  a  girl,  sitting  there. 

Doubtless  he  was  tiring  her.  But  what  could  he  do?  And 
what  could  he  say?  This  curious  tension  underlying  the 
conversation — what  did  it  mean?  I  low  had  it  crept  in? 

Mr.  Amme's  nature  was  the  sort  that  always  finds  solace 
in  the  process  known  as  getting  down  to  cases. 

"If  you  will  permit  me,"  he  said,  very  calmly,  "I  will  lay 
before  you  the  problem  of  County  Railways." 

He  was  spreading  out  the  papers,  all  figures. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  363 

She  broke  in;  irrelevantly,  he  felt,  with  deepening  irri- 
tation : 

"Supposing  we  didn't  renew  the  trust  right  away,  Mr. 
Amne.  What  would  Mr.  O'Rell  do?" 

"But  you  would  have  to  take  some  definite  action.  You 
could  hardly  go  into  the  meeting  and  vote  independently  on 
a  score  of  complicated  matters." 

"But  suppose  I  just  gave  you  my  proxies  and  let  the  other 
matter  go  over." 

"The  trust?" 

"Yes."  Her  eyes  were  snapping.  "What  would  Mr. 
O'Rell  do?" 

"He  would  resign  instantly." 

"You  are  sure?" 

Mr.  Amme  bowed. 

"And  that  would  plunge  the  company  into  confusion?" 

Mr.  Amme  spread  his  hands. 

"Hmm !"  mused  Miriam. 

Mr.  Amme,  as  we  well  know,  was  not  a  man  of  penetrat- 
ing insight  or  large  imagination.  He  was  not  what  we  term 
a  big  man.  But  he  was  honest  and  he  had  feelings.  He 
had  been,  all  his  early  business  life,  in  Jim  Cantey's  confi- 
dence. That  confidence  had  made  him.  It  was  the  deepest 
tradition  of  his  life.  And  now  to  sit  here  and  feel  this  curi- 
ously impenetrable  hostility  on  the  part  of  Jim  Cantey's 
daughter  stirred  him  as  he  hadn't  been  stirred  since  he  pro- 
posed marriage  to  the  present  Mrs.  Amme. 

"Miss  Miriam,"  he  said  now,  "for  myself,  I  ask  nothing. 
I  have  endeavored  to  administer  your  father's  estate  as  I 
believe  he  would  have  wished.  No  one  could  know,  as  I 
know,  how  extremely  complex  the  business  of  the  estate  is. 
But  if  you  wish  other  counsel  than  mine  please  let  me  ad- 
vise you  to  lose  no  time  in  arranging  for  it.  This  is  a  criti- 
cal time.  We — somebody  working  in  your  interest — must 
act  with  the  greatest  promptness.  And  let  me  say  that  if 
you  do  secure  other  counsel,  I  stand  ready  to  cooperate  in 
every  possible  way  that  may  help  him  arrive  at  an  under- 
standing of  your  affairs." 


364  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

She  took  him  in.  Her  eyes  grew  thoughtful ;  even  moist- 
ened a  little.  She  knew  he  was  honest.  She  respected  hrm. 
Of  course  she  couldn't  within  live  years  of  close  stady 
grasp  all  the  intricate  legal  and  business  details  of  Cantey 
Estate.  She  knew  that  as  well  as  he.  But  what  he  didn't 
know — what  he  could  never  know — was  that  she  understood 
him  through  and  through.  She  knew  he  was  a  little  man. 
She  knew  that  O'Rell  and  Quakers  had  sent  him  here,  that 
he  mattered  hardly  more  than  a  well-trained  errand  boy. 

She  had  no  plan  of  action;  her  only  guide  was  a  deeply 
disturbing  excitement  that  throbbed  (even  now)  at  her  tem- 
ples, that  buoyed  her  up  while  it  tired  her. 

She  rose. 

"I  am  a  little  tired,  Mr.  Amme,"  she  said.  "Let  me  just 
sleep  over  this." 

"But" — he  sprang  up — "but  there  is  really  no  time — " 

"To-morrow."  She  smiled  faintly.  "Call  me  up  at  noon, 
please." 

"But    .    .    ." 

She  went  into  her  sitting-room,  drawing  to  the  narrow 
door  behind  her. 

She  stood  in  there,  listening,  while  he  gathered  up  his 
papers. 

She  heard  him  go  down  the  stairs ;  deliberately,  with  prim 
little  steps. 

Then,  with  more  color,  she  turned  to  her  desk. 

A  manuscript  lay  there.  She  had  been  reading  it  when 
Mr.  Amme  came,  and  had  laid  an  ivory  paper  knife  in  it  to 
mark  the  place. 

Mr.  Hitt  had  left  it  with  her,  at  the  end  of  the  afternoon. 
He  had  been  quaint  about  it.  He  had  no  right,  he  had  said. 
But  leave  it  he  must.  And  read  it  she  must. 

She  was  beginning  to  love  Hazlitt  Hitt.  And  to  worry  a 
little  about  him. 

She  sank  down  with  the  script  in  the  window-seat  and 
read  swiftly  on  to  the  last  page,  the  last  broken  sentence. 

Then  she  leaned  back,  closed  her  eyes,  tried  to  think ;  but 
her  mind  raced. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  365 

This  was  clear,  he  had  seized  on  the  West,  her  father's 
West.  She  felt  now,  as  he  must  have  been  feeling,  the  model 
ships  in  the  next  room,  the  railway  map  on  the  wall  behind 
the  desk,  Jim  Cantey's  note-books.  He  saw,  was  thrilled 
by,  an  immensely  romantic  picture  of  a  lusty  young  people 
conquering  and  breaking  to  business  harness  an  untrained 
continent.  ...  It  was  a  picture  Mr.  Amme  would  never 
see.  But  Henry  Calverly  saw  it  as  clearly  as  had  Jim 
Cantey,  a  leading  actor  in  the  drama.  What  a  pity  Jim  Can- 
tey  couldn't  be  alive  now !  How  he  would  love  to  shut  out 
the  intriguing  business  men  and  play  with  Henry  Calverly ! 
He  always  had  proteges;  but  never  such  an  one  as  this 
thrilling  young  man.  He  had  loved  unconventional  imagina- 
tion in  others.  He  would,  she  definitely  knew,  discern  in- 
stantly the  wild  greatness  in  Henry. 

She  rested  a  flushed  cheek  on  a  slim  hand ;  tried  to  calm 
herself,  bring  her  thoughts  under  some  sort  of  control. 

They  had  been  kept  apart,  she  and  Henry.  It  had  been  a 
dreadful  time.  She  had  no  means  of  knowing  what  he 
thought  of  her  now.  There  had  been  no  word.  Perhaps — 
probably,  she  thought — misunderstandings  had  been  grow- 
ing into  a  tangle  of  weedy  doubts,  into  hostility,  even.  She 
couldn't  know.  Yet  his  book  was  their  common  dream. 
It  was  herself  and  her  father,  as  it  was  Henry. 

It  was  wonderful  to  think  that  he  was  writing  away  at  it 
now,  that  a  new  thing  was  growing  on  earth.  And  she  had 
helped  a  little  in  bringing  it  first  to  life;  though  so  pitifully 
little! 

Jim  Cantey  never  had  patience  with  misunderstandings. 
He  brushed  them  aside,  or  cut  straight  through  them. 

Then — it  was  a  little  startling  even  to  herself — she  broke 
into  a  chuckle. 

For  she  had  actually  forgotten  Mr.  Amme,  and  the  other 
trustees,  and  the  annual  meeting  of  County  Railways,  and 
the  confusion  of  demoralization  about  to  undermine  all  the 
vast,  interlocking  Cantey  interests  unless  she,  Miriam  Can- 
tey, a  girl — oh,  it  was  grotesque,  monstrous! — a  girl  who 


366  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

couldn't  keep  her  personal  check-stubs  straight,  should  make 
up  her  mind. 

All  those  great  businesses — in  a  way  her  background,  as 
distinctly  the  source  of  her  livelihood — were  dependent  on 
some  sort  of  decision  in  that  highly-colored  kaleidoscope, 
her  mind.  She  laughed.  For  the  moment  she  was  near 
bitterness. 

And  it  wouldn't  keep  until  to-morrow,  this  momentous 
decision  of  hers.  A  business  empire  hung,  tottering,  wait- 
ing for  her  word. 

A  shrewd  moment  came.  She  thought  of  little,  neat  Mr. 
Amme,  of  driving,  able,  unscrupulous  Harvey  O'Rell,  of 
suave,  spineless  Mr.  Listerly.  They  were  clear  to  her.  She 
couldn't  go  on  with  them.  And  she  didn't  care  what  might 
become  of  them. 

Nice  old  Mr.  Hitt  came  up  then,  preceded  by  the  maid 
with  his  card. 

He  was  apologetic.  It  was  getting  late.  He  had  meant 
only  to  ask  for  the  manuscript.  It  seemed  that  Mr.  Cal- 
verly's  publisher  was  in  town  and  wished  to  read  it  over- 
night. There  had  been  some  excitement.  Mr.  Calverly — 
And  there  he  hesitated. 

"Not  an  accident?"  she  cried,  breathlessly. 

"Well— in  a  way." 

"He— he  wasn't     .     .     ." 

"I  haven't  been  able  to  put  the  story  quite  together,  Miss 
Cantey.  It's  an  extraordinary  circumstance." 

She  was  relieved  to  see  him  smile  at  this  point. 

"Apparently  Mayor  Maclntyre  himself  broke  into  Mr. 
Calverly's  room." 

"Oh !"  cried  Miriam.    "Those  papers !" 

"Yes." 

"He  didn't  attack  Mr.  Calverly?" 

"No.  From  what  Mr.  Guard  tells  me  I  gather  that  Henry 
attacked  him,  beat  him  unmercifully,  then  chased  him  to  the 
river  and  nearly  drowned  him." 

"Oh!  .  .  .  I'm  so  glad!"  breathed  Miriam,  sitting 
very  still. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  367 

"I  hope  you've  had  time  to  read  the  manuscript,  Miss 
Cantey." 

She  nodded,  brightly. 

"I  had  no  right,  of  course    ...    I  couldn't  resist    .    .    ." 

She  gave  it  to  him. 

"I  don't  know,  of  course,  what  impression  it  made  on 
you." 

"I  liked  it  very  much,"  she  said. 

And  that  was  all  she  could  say.  It  disappointed  him,  of 
course.  He  was  quite  wild  about  it.  She  loved  him  for  the 
very  look  on  his  face  as  he  spoke  of  it.  But  she  couldn't 
talk. 

After  he  had  gone  she  wrote  a  note  to  Henry,  and  her- 
self took  it  out  to  the  box. 

It  seemed  a  queer  thing  to  do.  But  some  sort  of  deci- 
sion had  to  be  reached  this  night.  And  why  not,  after  all, 
cut  through  to  the  heart  of  the  problem? 


CHAPTER  FORTY-TWO 

On  the  Topic  of  What  May  Be  Done  with  Mayors.    Lead- 
ing Up  to  Something  of  a  Climax 

IN  the  morning  Henry  breakfasted  at  the  hotel  with  Hum- 
phrey and  Guard. 

And  there,  for  the  first  time  in  years,  he  tasted  what 
seemed,  at  the  moment,  joy  absolute. 

Guard  had  fallen  utterly  under  the  spell  of  his  new  book. 
For  that  matter,  so  had  Humphrey.  The  two  men  frankly, 
almost  naively,  looked  at  him  with  new  eyes.  They  had 
been  up  most  of  the  night  over  it.  To  sit  back  and  let  them 
talk  it  over  from  this  angle  and  that,  with  as  great  respect 
as  they  would  have  shown  in  discussing  Stevenson  or  Dick- 
ens or  Shakespeare  himself,  was  like  a  writer's — any  writ- 
er's—dream of  heaven  upon  earth. 

Guard  spoke  of  taking  him  east  and  opening  up  his  own 
country  home  in  Connecticut  in  order  that  Henry  might 
complete  the  book  in  comfortable  seclusion;  spoke  casually 
of  money  ("No  trouble  about  that,  Calverly!");  planned 
audibly  a  new  edition  of  Satraps  of  the  Simple;  commented 
on  the  need  of  extensive  "publicity." 

This  word — in  more  than  one  respect  the  fatal  word  in 
the  life  of  Henry  Calverly — brought  up  a  recollection. 

"By  the  way,"  Guard  said,  "who  put  out  the  new  story 
about  you?" 

Henry  looked  blank.  "There  have  been  so  many  stories," 
he  said,  with  a  twinge  of  the  old  mental  pain.  But  he  could 
speak  of  them  now.  That  was  something. 

"There  haven't  been  many  like  this,  Calverly." 

"He  means,"  Humphrey  put  in,  watching  his  old  friend 
closely,  "the  friendly  one,  about  your  refusing  the  Watt 
money." 

"Oh!"  said  Henry,  trying  to  think.  "Oh,  that  one!  I 
think  I  did  see  it" 

368 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  369 

"You  think  you  saw  it!  Good  lord!"  Guard  smiled. 
"You  know  what  it  did,  don't  you?" 

Henry  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"It  came  pretty  near  putting  your  name  back  where  it 
stood  in  the  old  days.  At  one  stroke.  Set  thoughtful  people 
talking  about  you  all  over  the  country." 

"No!"  cried  Henry. 

"Certainly !  And  more,  it  started  up  a  new  sale  for  •$«- 
traps  of  the  Simple." 

"Why,"  murmured  Henry,  trying  to  believe  the  news, 
"that's  extraordinary !" 

"It  is,  all  of  that.  Oh,  we're  not  printing  it  in  thirty-thou- 
sand lots  this  time,  but  it's  something,  isn't  it,  to  have  a 
dead  book  come  to  life  on  your  hands?" 

"I  should  think  so !"  said  Henry  politely. 

"You  mean  to  say  you  don't  know  who  did  it  ?" 

Henry  shook  his  head.  Then  remarked,  vaguely,  "Oh, 
that  must  have  been  what  Parker  meant." 

"Most  remarkable!"  said  the  publisher.  "Somebody  de- 
liberately planned  it.  One  of  the  best  worked  out  things 
I  ever  saw.  Why,  it  appeared  simultaneously  in 
more  than  a  hundred  cities.  And  the  boiler-plate  weeklies 
had  it,  three  or  four  thousand  of  them.  I  put  the  clipping 
bureaus  at  work  on  it,  and  they're  dragging  in  no  end  of 
stuff.  Follow-up  matter,  even.  Editorials.  And  a  lot  of 
stuff  in  the  literary  weeklies.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't 
know  who  did  it?" 

"I  don't."  This  was  true  enough ;  but  he  was  beginning 
to  think,  rather  uncomfortably,  of  Margie  Daw. 

"Why,  it's  what  brought  me  on  here." 

"Why— didn't  Hump—?" 

"Weaver,  here?  No,  he  called  up  two  hours  before  train 
time.  My  bag  was  in  the  office,  packed." 

They  walked  with  him  to  the  boarding-house. 

At  the  corner  by  the  News  building,  Henry  saw  a  trim 
girlish  figure  approaching,  and  in  a  moment  recognized 
Margie  Daw.  But  Margie  wore  a  new  appearance.  The 
boyish  blue  suit  and  soft  felt  hat  had  been  laid  aside  for  a 
traveling  suit  of  a  more  feminine  cut.  She  wore  a  hat 


370  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

with  flowers  on  it.  And  there  was  a  soft  mass  of  lace  at 
her  throat.  She  looked  really  pretty,  and  remarkably  dif- 
ferent. 

He  stopped  short.  The  two  other  men  walked  on  a  lit- 
tle way. 

One  thought  in  Henry's  mind  was  that  she  had  not  yet 
acknowledged  his  final  payment  to  her.  He  spoke  with  a 
touch  of  constraint. 

"How  do  you  do,"  he  said,  lamely. 

She  smiled,  and  took  his  hand. 

"You — you  got  my  note  ?"  This  was  clumsy  enough.  He 
was  never  quick  to  adapt  himself  among  the  complexities 
of  human  environment. 

"Yes,"  she  replied.  "Thanks.  I  should  have  acknowl- 
edged it." 

Here  their  talk  died  out. 

He  saw  that  she  was  carrying  a  small  hand-bag. 

"Oh — "  he  said,  "you — you're  going  away?" 

"Yes.  To  New  York.  To  seek  my  fortune,  Henry.  I 
have  friends  there." 

"Oh !"  he  said.    Then,  "Oh !" 

"Time  for  my  train,"  said  she.  "I'll  say  good-by,  Henry. 
And  good  luck  1" 

"Good  luck  to  you,  Margie !" 

They  clasped  hands.  And  now  he  contrived  to  get  a  sort 
of  footing  among  his  confused  thoughts. 

"No  one  has  been  kinder  to  me  than  you,"  he  said.  "I 
do  know  that." 

Her  eyes  met  his  for  an  instant.  The  comers  of  her 
mouth  moved  a  little  of  the  way  toward  a  smile. 

"It  wasn't  kindness,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  yes !"  he  cried. 

"No— not  altogether." 

Again,  for  the  briefest  of  moments,  their  eyes  met.  And 
in  hers  was  a  cool  challenge  that  he  found,  for  the  moment, 
disturbing. 

"Good  luck!"  she  said  again.  "If  you  get  to  New  York, 
any  time,  look  me  up.  A  note  to  the  Evening  Earth  will 
always  reach  me." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  371 

And  then  she  was  gone.  He  was  not  to  see  her  again 
for  a  long  time. 

lie  felt,  as  he  hurried  after  the  others,  oddly  baffled.  She 
had  been  kind.  As  for  other  motives — well,  she  had  been 
rather  attractively  frank  about  those.  He  liked  her.  But 
he  knew  for  the  moment — a  fact  that  had  a  way  of  slipping, 
for  periods  of  time,  out  of  his  ken — that  a  man  like  himself 
can  not  safely  like  women.  Such  friendships  were  always 
to  be  difficult  for  him. 

They  entered  the  boarding-house. 

On  the  hall  table  lay  a  letter  addressed  to  Henry  Calverly. 
He  picked  it  up,  with  an  instant  quickening  of  his  pulse. 

A  maid  came  out  of  the  "parlor"  and  said: 

"There's  a  man  to  see  you,  Mr.  Calverly." 

He  looked  in.  On  the  sofa  sat  Mayor  Tim,  rather  stiffly, 
hat  on  knees,  overcoat  collar  turned  up,  face  patched  here 
and  there  with  court-plaster. 

Henry  hesitated ;  glanced  down  at  the  handwriting  on  the 
envelope ;  then  stepped  into  the  room. 

Tim  Maclntyre  rose. 

"Well,"  he  asked — "well,  what  are  you  going  to  say  to 
me?" 

His  submissiveness  had  lasted  overnight,  then.  It  seemed 
extraordinary. 

Henry  considered.  He  had  as  good  as  forgotten  the  man. 
But  something  must  be  done.  He  found,  rather  to  his  sur- 
prise, that  his  own  position  stood  about  as  it  had  in  the 
evening.  The  Power  was  on  him.  And  those  who  know 
Henry  Calverly  will  be  surprised  at  nothing  he  might  do  at 
such  a  time. 

He  looked  the  man  over.  Anger  and  disgust  rose  again. 
And  impatience ;  for  the  letter  in  his  hand  might  be — was — 
the  most  important  thing  in  the  world.  He  dared  not  think 
what  words  might  be  in  it.  There  was  a  growing  pressure 
in  his  head ;  his  scalp  seemed  suddenly  too  small ;  he  had  to 
catch  a  long  breath. 

''I'm  going  to  let  you  go,"  he  said  roughly. 

"Well — I'd  like  to  know  just  what  you  mean  by  that, 
Calverly." 


372  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"What  I  say!  You're  to  go!  Get  out!  .  .  .  But 
wait  a  moment."  He  stepped  to  the  door  and  called  Guard 
and  Humphrey  into  the  room. 

"Write  out  your  resignation  as  mayor,"  he  commanded. 

It  was  necessary  to  find  paper.  Guard  had  a  fountain 
pen.  There  was  a  discussion  as  to  proper  forms  of  ex- 
pression in  which  Henry's  two  friends  took  part.  And 
when  the  document  was  completed  and  signed,  all  three 
witnessed  it. 

It  was  a  curious  document ;  one  that  might  some  day 
acquire  value  in  the  eyes  of  local  historians.  In  it,  Tim- 
othy Maclntyre  resigned  from  the  office  of  mayor,  re- 
nounced "all  and  every  claim"  for  compensation  on  the  part 
of  the  city  to  himself,  and  pledged  himself  to  leave  forever, 
within  twenty-four  hours,  the  city  and  the  state. 

"Well,"  he  asked  nervously,  after  Humphrey  had  read 
it  through,  aloud,  "does  that  satisfy  you?" 

"Satisfy  me?  Yes."  Thus  Calverly.  Who  then  turned 
so  abruptly  on  the  man  that  he  shrank  back  a  step.  "Now 
you  can  pack  up  your  things  and  leave  town.  And  you  can 
thank  your  stars  I  don't  ask  for  the  key  of  your  box  in  the 
safe  deposit  vault." 

Pale,  in  a  great  hurry,  Tim  Maclntyre  left. 

"I  wonder  if  just  this  thing  was  ever  done  before,"  mused 
Guard. 

''I'm  wondering,"  thus  Humphrey,  "if  you  shouldn't  have 
made  him  disgorge.  You  say  he's  a  thief." 

"Henry  could  hardly  have  done  more,"  said  Guard.  "He's 
fired  the  mayor,  as  it  stands.  If  the  city  wants  to  sue, 
later,  for  restitution  of  stolen  moneys,  there's  nothing  to 
stop  them." 

"True,"  said  Humphrey.  "Hen,  now  that  you've  got  this 
remarkable  document,  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Henry,  who  had  moved  in  a 
preoccupied  way  to  the  window  and  was  nervously  twisting 
the  curtain  string. 

"I  wonder  if  it  would  stand  in  law,"  mused  Humphrey. 

Henry,  all  nervously  at  sea,  hummed — 


(THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  373 

"The  Law  is  ti: ^  true  embodiment 
Of  everything  that's  excellent. 
It  has  no  sort  of  fault  or  flaw, 
And  I,  my  Lords,  embody  the  Law !" 

"The  extraordinary  things" — Guard  was  pursuing  the 
topic — "is  that  he  should  pick  out  Henry  here  to  resign  to. 
The  merest  of  private  citizens.  Come  to  think  of  it,  not 
even  a  citizen  here.  It's  as  if  he  thought — " 

This  brought  Henry's  mind  straight  down  to  the  letter 
in  his  hand.  He  tore  it  open. 

"If  you  folks  will  excuse  me,"  he  muttered.  He  was 
growing  red.  "It's  very  important." 

They  waited. 

He  read  this — • 

"Could  you,  Henry,  come  to  me  as  soon  as  you  receive 
this,  in  the  morning?  If  you  can  help  me,  you  must.  There's 
no  one  else.  And  I  must  take  some  course.  They're  pes- 
tering me  so. 

"MIRIAM." 

He  turned  on  them — hotly,  fiercely. 

"You'll  have  to  excuse  me!"  he  cried.  "There's  a  very 
important  matter.  We  can  talk  the  book  over — oh,  this 
noon!  Some  time!  I'll  call  you  up  at  the  hotel!" 

He  rushed  past  them ;  ran  out  and  down  the  steps ;  raced 
across  the  lawn. 

"Well !"  exclaimed  the  publisher. 

Humphrey  laughed  softly. 

"You  take  it  lightly,  Weaver.  .  .  .  What  is  all  this, 
anyway  ?  What  have  we  got  into !" 

"We've  got  into  a  story  beside  which  the  one  Henry's 
writing  is  a  pale  thing." 

"Hm !    Rather  looks  like  it." 

"We  might  stroll  back  to  the  hotel.  He  won't  appear 
again  this  morning.  Give  you  time  to  jot  down  a  few  notes 
for  the  biography  of  Henry  Calverly  that  you'll  be  publish- 
ing one  of  these  days." 


374  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

Guard  smiled.  Then,  as  they  walked  down  the  steps, 
abruptly  asked: 

"Look  here,  Weaver,  are  you  in  on  this?  Do  you  know 
why  the  mayor  of  this  city  handed  his  resignation  to  that 
boy?" 

"No,"  said  Humphrey,  "but  I  begin  to  suspect  that  the 
real  reason  may  have  some  connection  with  that  letter. 
And  my  guess  is  that  you  and  I  are  going  to  have  a  rather 
amusing  few  days." 

Henry,  meanwhile,  walking  at  a  feverish  gait,  made  his 
way  to  the  Cantey  residence. 

He  rang.  Then  waited.  And  waited.  His  nails  were 
digging  into  his  palms.  His  head  felt  as  if  it  might  burst. 

The  butler — very  deliberately — opened  the  door. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Calverly,"  he  said,  respectfully,  "will 
you  come  this  way,  please."  And  led  him  up-stairs.  Then 
up  another  flight. 

He  was  to  be  taken  to  the  study ! 

His  mind  took  in  the  familiar  furniture,  the  paintings,  the 
wall  paneling,  as  if  it  were  a  highly  sensitized  photographic 
plate. 

The  man  opened  the  study  door.  Henry  stepped  within, 
and  the  door  closed  behind  him. 

The  room  was  empty.  For  an  instant  his  heart  sank ; 
then  inexplicably  rose  again.  .  .  .  There  were  the 
model  ships,  the  maps,  the  globe,  the  safe !  And  the  desk ! 
And  Jim  Cantey's  old  swivel  chair ! 

There  was  a  sound.  He  moved  forward ;  then  stood 
motionless,  breathless.  ...  A  door-knob  turned.  He 
thought  his  heart  would  stop  beating. 

Then  the  narrow  door  between  the  bookcase  and  the  win- 
dow swung  open  and  Miriam  stood  there  ....  stood! 
Moved  slowly  but  easily  forward ! 

The  color  came  to  her  lovely  face  as  it  was  now,  at  last 
coming  to  his. 

She  said,  rather  faintly — 

"Henry    .    .    .    won't  you  sit  down?" 


CHAPTER  FORTY-THREE 

In  Which  Miriam,  in  Attempting  to  State  Her  Problem 
Quite  Impersonally,  Arrives,  as  Women  Are  Some- 
times Said  to  Do,  at  a  Rather  Personal  Solution 

THERE  was  a  long  silence.  Henry  dropped,  in  his  con- 
fusion, into  the  big  chair  by  the  safe,  the  chair  to 
which  he  had  carried  her,  that  first  day.  Miriam  sat  on 
the  farther  side  of  the  room.  She  seemed  actually  well. 
His  mind  couldn't  take  in  the  fact.  The  narrow  door  stood 
open,  but  beyond  it  in  her  comfortable  den  there  was  no 
sign  of  the  wheel-chair. 

In  all  his  thoughts  of  her  she  had  been  a  helpless  girl. 
But  now  she  appeared,  to  his  bewildered  eyes,  a  curiously 
unapproachable  young  woman.  She  was  slender,  but  appar- 
ently strong  enough.  Her  face  was  delicate,  sensitive,  and 
would  soon  be  pale,  as  it  had  been  when  she  first  appeared 
in  the  doorway,  but  the  color  in  her  eyes  and  hair  had  never 
been  so  vivid.  It  occurred  to  him,  glancing  hesitantly  about 
the  room,  that  there  had  been  a  remarkable  vigor  in  the 
Cantey  strain ;  perhaps  it  was  yet  to  appear  in  Miriam.  Sure- 
ly it  would.  Mentally  she  had  never  lost  it;  and  that  was 
the  main  thing.  .  .  .  More  and  more  inaccessible  she 
seemed.  He  was  a  little  absurd  about  it,  of  course; 
to  the  extent  of  forgetting  the  significant  fact  that  she  had 
sent  for  him.  But  then,  in  a  period  of  such  intense  feeling 
as  the  present  Henry  would  inevitably  have  absurd  moments. 
To  his  dying  day  he  would  have  them. 

He  said : 

''It's  nice  to  see  you  so  well." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  nervously,  breathlessly  quick,  "it's 
quite  wonderful,  really.  But  it  makes  me  feel  ashamed." 

"Oh  no,  it  shouldn't.    You  mustn't." 

Silence  again.  He  was  lost  in  a  jungle  of  unutterable 

375 


376  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

thoughts.  But  he  must  say  something.  Something  that 
didn't  matter. 

"You've  been  out  West,"  was  what  he  finally  got  out.  A 
rather  unpromising  speech. 

"Yes,  I  didn't  stay  a  great  while.    I — I  didn't  want  to." 

The  tension  was  growing  more  and  more  nearly  unendur- 
able. 

"I  sent  for  you" — her  voice  seemed  fainter,  farther  off— 
"because  I  need  advice  dreadfully." 

"I'll  be  glad  to  help  if  I  can."  He  had  no  means  of  know- 
ing that  he  was  presenting  a  front  of  almost  frigid  dignity. 

"The  trouble  is — somebody's  got  to  help.  It's  business. 
I'll  try  to  explain  it  as  clearly  as  I  can.  Mr.  Amme  came 
over  last  evening." 

"Ohl"  Henry  interjected,  rather  politely. 

"It  seems  that  the  Trust  has  expired.  They  want  me  to 
renew  it.  Mr.  Amme,  you  know,  and  Mr.  O'Rell,  and  Mr. 
Listerly.  They've  administered  father's  estate  up  to  now. 
I  don't  seem  to  want  to  put  everything  back  in  their  hands. 
But  the  trouble  is,  Henry" — she  knit  her  brows,  deter- 
mined to  be  businesslike — "there's  so  much  to  look  after. 
Corporations,  and  banks,  and  the  News,  and  County  Rail- 
ways." 

"Oh!"  said  he  again.  Then,  "I'm  afraid  I  can't  help 
much  that  way.  I'm  no  earthly  good  at  business." 

"But  neither  am  I,  Henry."  Her  hands  fluttered  up  in  a 
self-conscious  little  gesture.  "That's  the  trouble.  And 
there's  nobody  else  to  turn  to.  We've  seen  these  things  so 
much  alike,  you  know." 

That  "we"  brought  up  a  fresh  tangle  of  little  mental 
difficulties  for  both. 

He  knit  his  brows  now.  The  thing  to  do,  of  course,  was 
to  listen  sympathetically  and  then  think  out  some  way  of 
helping  her.  Yes,  that  was  the  thing.  Be  definite  about  it. 
Get  down  to  brass  tacks,  and  stay  there. 

"The  real  difficulty  is  County  Railways.  The  annual 
meeting.  It  comes  right  away.  This  week.  And  there 
have  to  be  plans.  Of  course,  I  couldn't  accomplish  much 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  377 

by  just  going  to  the  meeting  and  trying  to  vote  on  all  their 
complicated  business.  I'd  demoralize  the  Company.  And 
Mr.  O'Rell  would  resign  instantly." 

Henry  brightened  a  little  at  this. 

"That  wouldn't  be  so  bad,"  he  murmured. 

"No,  but  it  seems  that  while  he  may  do  some  things  that 
make  him  open  to  criticism,  he's  a  good  manager  and  the 
Company  has  never  passed  a  dividend." 

Henry  knit  his  brows  again  over  this.  Clearly  it  was 
a  problem !  He  sprang  up.  He  didn't  see  her  nervous  lit- 
tle start,  but  strode  to  the  window  and  gazed  moodily  out. 

"You  see,"  she  explained  further,  "I  suppose  I — in  a 
way — own  the  Company.  It  seems  silly.  But  it's  a  responsi- 
bility. Really  a  public  responsibility.  There  are  lots  of 
employees  and  their  families.  And  then  there's  the  matter 
of  service  to  the  city.  Father  always  thought  a  good  deal 
of  that." 

She  rose  now;  moved  over  to  the  big  globe  and  stood 
slowly  turning  it  as  she  talked. 

"The  trouble  is,  of  course,  if  I  did  go  into  the  meeting, 
there  wouldn't  be  any  way  I  could  tell  what  things  meant — 
statements,  and  figures,  and  business  policies." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  he.  "They'd  have  you  at  every 
point.  And  I'd  be  worse." 

"I  wonder  if  you  would." 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"Well  ...  I  wondered  if  you  .  .  .  mightn't 
know  of  some  one."  She  was  faltering  a  little  now. 

"No,  I  don't.  Except  Hump.  He  knows  a  lot  about 
business  and  corporations  and  things  like  that." 

"Who  is  he,  Henry?" 

"A  dear  old  friend  of  mine.  Humphrey  Weaver.  We 
owned  a  country  paper  together  once.  Back  in  Sun- 
bury.  He  was  inventing  then,  nights,  and  Sundays,  until 
.  .  .  and  then  he's  been  very  successful.  He — he's  the 
one  friend  that's  stood  by  me  through — through  every- 
thing." 

The  words  were  out  before  he  could  stop  them.    Now, 


378  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

that  they  were  out  he  could  have  bitten  his  tongue  off. 
The  color  left  his  face;  it  was  gray  with  pain.  He  turned 
back  to  the  window  and  stared  out. 

She  made  no  sound.  Surely  he  had  hurt  her  terribly. 
He  wondered  what  she  was  thinking.  A  rustle  told  him 
now  that  she  was  moving  a  little.  Then  the  silence  fell 
again. 

Her  voice,  when  she  did  speak,  in  some  degree  reassured 
him. 

"Could  he  be  reached,  Henry?    Your  friend?" 

"Why — why,  yes!    He's  in  town  now!" 

"The  thing  is" — clearly  she  was  determined  to  see  it 
through — "it's  really  awfully  important.  Here  I  am, 
with  all  this  responsibility,  and  I'm — well,  alone,  Henry." 
She  tried  to  smile.  "I  don't  understand  business,  but  1 
do  understand  these  men.  They're  against  us,  Henry — 
against  everything  you  and  I  believe  in.  I  know,  I  really 
know,  that  if  father  could  come  back  now  he'd  throw 
every  man  of  them  out.  When  he  was  alive  there  was  a 
spirit  alive  in  the  city.  But  it  died  with  him.  These  men 
have  no  spirit,  no  faith." 

She  threw  out  her  hands.  Her  voice  was  none  too  steady, 
but  she  didn't  pause. 

"You  see  how  it  is.  You  fought  them.  If  you  hadn't,  I 
know  I  would  have  drifted  on.  Likely  as  not  I'd  have  re- 
newed the  Trust.  I  wouldn't  have  known  what  else  to  do. 
But  your  spirit  has  brought  up  the  old  feeling.  I've  got 
to  fight  them  now.  And  I  don't  know  how.  I'm  so  alone. 
I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

His  lips  moved,  but  he  didn't  speak. 

He  had  turned,  and  was  watching  her  so  intently,  so 
hungrily,  that  her  own  eyes  wandered  off  to  the  ships  on 
the  bookcase. 

And  then,  abruptly,  he  chuckled. 

Almost  instantly  he  controlled  his  features. 

Her  expression  of  dumb  amazement  brought  from  him 
the  mumbled,  rather  shamefaced  explanation — >. 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  mayor." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  379 

"The  mayor?"  she  breathed. 

"Yes.    We  had  a  fight  last  night." 

"Oh!     .     .     .    a  fight.     .     .     ." 

"Yes,  fists.  It  must  have  been  pretty  awful.  I  don't  know 
when  I've  lost  my  temper  like  that.  I  almost  killed  him, 
Miriam." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  spoken  her  name.  At  the 
sound  of  it  the  extreme  nervous  tension  against  which  she 
had  been  struggling  relaxed  a  very  little. 

Then,  as  abruptly  as  he,  she  laughed  softly. 

"It's  queer,"  Henry  went  on.  "He  caved  in.  He  came 
around  this  morning,  and  signed  this.  ...  I  had  it 
somewhere."  He  was  rummaging  through  his  pockets, 
bringing  out  numerous  papers  and  small  articles.  "Oh,  here 
it  is."  And  he  gave  her  the  mayor's  document,  with  its 
formidable  column  of  signatures. 

"Good  gracious!"  she  said.    "He's  resigned,  Henry." 

"Yes,  and  I'm  having  him  leave  town." 

They  both  laughed  at  this. 

"I  don't  suppose  it  would  stand  in  law,"  said  he  then, 
"but  it's  good  reading." 

"It  would  stand  in  the  papers,"  said  she.  "Once  that's 
published,  he'll  have  to  go  anyway." 

"Oh,  yes,  but  what  paper  would  publish  it?" 

"Hum!"  she  mused.  "That,  of  course.  We'll  have  to 
do  something  about  that,  too."  She  knit  her  brows  again. 
Her  task  was  not  yet  accomplished.  "Henry,  I'm  going  to 
make  an  extraordinary  request  of  you.  It's  difficult,  after 
what's  happened.  I'd  like  you,  if  you  can,  to  consider  it 
impersonally  .  .  .  whatever  you  may  think  of  me 
.  .  .  it's  clear  enough,  just  from  the  way  they've  made 
us  feel,  that  all  these  men  are  awfully  wrong.  They're 
somehow  going  wrong." 

"A  man  at  the  boarding-house  said  yesterday  that  Oswald 
Quakers  has  overthrown  the  old  Cantey  Machine  and  is 
organizing  the  city  for  Senator  Painter,"  said  Henry.  "I 
caught  the  name,  and  listened.  He  said  it  was  the  talk 


380  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"Hm!    It  gets  pretty  complicated,  doesn't  it?** 

"It  does." 

"But  never  mind  that.  I've  tried  to  state  my  problem, 
Henry.  I've  got  to  make  a  stand,  wherever  it  may  land  me. 
I  can't  do  it  alone.  There  has  to  be  a  man  in  it.  I  can't 
even  talk  to  them." 

"Neither  can  I.    I  can't  follow  their  tricks." 

"No — "  her  restraint  fell  away;  suddenly  her  voice  was 
rich  with  emotion — "but  you  can  drive  that  dishonest  mayor 
out  of  town.  Alone,  without  money  and  without  friends." 

"Oh,  he  must  have  gone  out  of  his  head,"  was  Henry's 
comment. 

"And  when  all  of  them  had  you  alone  at  Mr.  Quakers' 
house  and  tried  to  drive  you  out  of  town,  they  failed.  You 
haven't  gone  yet." 

Henry  sobered  at  this.  It  was  true  enough  as  an  isolated 
fact. 

"You  see  what  I'm  getting  at  so  clumsily.  I  don't  know 
any  other  way  to  go  about  it.  There's  no  time,  you  see. 
I've  thought — if  you  would  help  me — not  for  my  sake,  but 
because  it's  decent  and  right — oh,  because  it's  got  to  be 
done  somehow — if  you'd  help,  we  might  find  some  young 
lawyer  that  isn't  contaminated  yet  by  these  influences 
.  .  .  they  do  seem  to  touch  almost  everything,  don't 
they?  Why — why,  we  could  just  have  him  draw  up  a 
paper — a  power  of  attorney  it  would  be,  wouldn't  it? — 
giving  you  the  right  to  administer  the  Estate.  .  .  ." 

It  was  extraordinarily  difficult  to  come  down  on  the  literal 
words,  to  bring  all  this  talk  to  the  necessary  point.  But  she 
did  it,  by  main  strength ;  then  had  to  stop  for  breath. 

He  looked  bewildered. 

"Of  course,"  she  began  again,  "I  know  it's  a  very  big 
thing  to  ask.  .  .  ." 

"It  isn't  that,"  said  he,  studying  the  rug. 

"I  can  imagine  a  little  of  what  it  would  mean  to  you — 
Henry.  With  your  book  on  your  mind." 

"My  book.    .    .     ,    You  know?    .    .     ." 

"Mr.  Hitt  let  me  read  it.     Last  night.     It  wasn't  his 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  381 

fault.  I  made  him.  .  .  .  I'll  tell  you,  I  really  don't 
believe  you'd  have  to  give  so  much  time  to  it.  That  isn't 
it.  Senator  Painter  doesn't.  None  of  the  men  do  who  hold 
the  real  power.  And  you'd  hold  the  power.  A  lot  of  it,  I 
should  imagine  from  the  way  they're  righting  over  it." 

He  had  glanced  up  at  the  mention  of  his  book.  But  now 
his  attention  was  centered  again  on  the  floor.  He  looked 
moody;  uninterested,  she  thought.  She  could  have  reached 
out  and  shaken  him.  He  had  even  picked  up  a  glass  paper- 
weight from  the  desk,  and  was  looking  through  it  at  a  pat- 
tern in  the  rug,  tipping  the  glass  slowly  from  side  to  side 
and  squinting  his  eyes. 

She  bit  her  lip.    She  flatly  couldn't  go  on. 

Finally  he  said  this. 

"You'd  trust  me,  Miriam — with  all  that  ?" 

"I'd  have  to.    There's  nobody  else." 

And  then  he  really  almost  angered  her. 

"What  on  earth  would  people  think?"  he  asked. 

She  dismissed  this  with  a  movement  of  one  hand. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  said  shortly.  Then,  "I  realize  that  I 
have  no  right  to  ask  it.  Breaking  in  on  your  work  this  way." 

He  stared  so  long,  after  this,  through  the  glass  block  that 
she  could  have  screamed.  But  at  last  he  straightened  up, 
put  it  back  on  the  desk,  and  looked  at  her. 

"It  seems  funny,"  he  said,  "I  mean  that  it  should  be  me. 
But  probably  I  ought  to  do  it.  Try  it,  I  mean." 

It  seemed  to  her  now  that  he  was  taking  it  rather  lightly, 
all  at  once.  But  she  told  herself  that  this  feeling  was 
nerves,  and  to  be  ignored. 

"Then  you  will?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  I'll  try." 

They  rose. 

"I  suppose  I'd  better  see  Hump  first,  and  explain  what 
he's  to  do." 

"Are  you  sure  he'll  help?" 

"Far  as  I  can  see,  he's  got  to." 

They  moved  slowly,  side  by  side,  toward  the  door,  and 
paused  there.  Each  sensed  the  physical  nearness  of  the 


382  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

other.  She  was  stirred  to  the  point  of  what  at  one  moment 
was  a  painful  ecstasy  of  desire  for  him  and  at  another  was 
almost  like  an  extreme  unreasonable  irritation.  That  he 
could  look  so  calm,  and  could  think,  as  he  had  apparently 
been  thinking,  of  trifles,  confused  her.  She  even  wondered, 
in  a  flutter  of  nerves,  if  he  hated  her.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  he  had  grounds  for  it.  She  hadn't  stood  by  through 
everything.  Apparently,  now,  he  didn't  even  need  her. 
That,  if  it  were  true,  put  her  in  a  pretty  awkward  position; 
sending  for  him.  She  had  subconsciously  emphasized  the 
business  predicament ;  but  now,  in  a  wave  of  shame,  she 
felt  the  personal  implications.  If  only  he  hadn't  assumed 
the  burden  so  lightly!  It  was  his  book,  of  course.  That 
was  what  steadied  him.  She  had  to  compress  her  lips  at  the 
thought.  For  a  brief  moment  she  was  savagely  jealous  of 
that  book.  She  could  have  torn  it  up.  Because  it  was  so 
good. 

"Mr.  Amme  will  be  here  in  a  few  minutes,"  she  said. 
"After  all,  he's  the  only  one  that  really  knows  the  whole 
Estate.  I  suppose  he'll  have  to  help  with  the  paper.  It  will 
be  an  ordeal  for  him.  But  he  can't  help  that." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Henry,  "I'd  better  bring  Hump  back 
here.  We'll  find  a  lawyer.  I  was  just  thinking — Holmes 
Hitt  or  his  uncle  could  help  there.  They  both  look  at  things 
pretty  independently." 

"Then  I'll  ask  Mr.  Amme  to  wait  until  you  come  back." 

"Yes.    That's  the  best  way.    I'll  go  now." 

Then  they  stood  motionless.  Each  was  breathless.  Be- 
tween them  lay  the  unexplained  silence  that  they  had  so 
painstakingly  avoided  in  all  that  had  been  said. 

He  moved  a  half  step  forward  into  the  doorway.  Then 
paused  again. 

She  was  fingering  the  lock.  It  seemed  to  her  that  all  his 
and  her  eternity  was  hanging  on  the  impulse  that  might 
or  might  not  govern  this  moment. 

Then  she  heard  him  make  an  odd  sound. 

And  then  his  arms  were  about  her ;  bis  lips  were  on  hers ; 
she  was  clinging  to  him. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FOUR 

Of  the  Meeting  in  Jim  Canters  Study.  Leading  Up  to  What 
Happened  in  Cincinnati 

*  *T  T'S  twelve  o'clock,  Henry!    You  must  go!" 

•I   "I  know.     It  is  important." 

"It  isn't  as  if  we  weren't  to  be  together  again.  Just 
think,  Henry  .  .  .  always!" 

"I  know.  But  I  can't  think.  I — my  head's  swimming, 
dear.  How  can  I  go  down  there  and  talk  to  them!  And 
Mr.  Amme !  .  .  ." 

"It's  wonderful.  But  we  absolutely  must  be  serious.  Just 
think,  Henry!" 

"I  dread  it  a  little.  Parts  of  it.  It's  one  more  item  for 
the  papers.  They'll  call  me  a  fortune  hunter." 

"No."  She  shook  her  head  firmly.  "They  can't.  We 
both  inherited  money,  Henry.  And  everybody  knows  you 
gave  yours  up.  No,  they  can't." 

"I  forgot  that,"  he  said. 

"Henry,  you're  so  humorous." 

"I  did.  You  know,  in  a  way.  It  never  seemed  real  to 
me,  that  money.  It  never  meant  things  to  me — the  things 
that  money  can  mean." 

"I  was  so  proud  of  you !" 

"Were  you?  Proud  of  me?  .  .  .  Isn't  that  wonder- 
ful !" 

"Think  of  all  we'll  have  to  talk  about !  Your  book  .  .  . 
Oh,  you'll  never  know  how  you've  thrilled  me  with  that!" 

"Really?    You  liked  it?" 

"Henry !    You're  teasing  me." 

"No.  Honestly.  I — well,  from  the  way  you  just  men- 
tioned it — you  kiv>w,  when  we  were  talking — I  was  afraid 
you  .  .  ." 

"Henry !  Stop  t  I  can't  talk  about  it  now.  My  head's  in 

383 


384  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

a  whirl.  But  I  love  it !  It's  a  sort  of — well,  miracle  to  me. 
It  makes  me  a  little  afraid  of  you.  But  you  must  go,  dear. 
Mr.  Amme'll  be  coming  any  minute.  He's  terribly  prompt." 

"He  would  be.  Well,  I'll  go.  We'll  be  businesslike  now. 
But  you  mustn't  look  at  me.  Please!  Or  I'll  never  get 
away." 

"All  right.    Don't  be  long." 

Henry  met  Mr.  Amme  on  the  stairs ;  stood  aside  for  him ; 
murmured  politely — 

"I'll  get  back  as  soon  as  I  can,  Mr.  Amme."  And  left 
the  little  lawyer  to  stare  after  him  in  amazement. 

Humphrey  could  get  nothing  out  of  him ;  after  one  good 
look  at  him  gave  it  up.  It  was  clear  enough  that  the  Power 
was  on  him.  It  was  really  rather  thrilling  to  stand  quietly  by 
and  watch  this  slimly  vigorous  young  man  who  was  talking 
vaguely  and  continuously  about  everything  on  earth  except- 
ing the  thing  he  really  meant,  whose  cheeks  were  flushed 
with  excitement  and  whose  eyes  were  shining  with  an  almost 
unearthly  light.  He  looked  so  like  the  boy  Humphrey  had 
known,  back  in  Sunbury,  long  ago.  A  century  ago,  it 
seemed. 

Henry  called  up  Holmes  Hitt  from  a  booth.  There  was 
a  young  lawyer,  said  that  alert  advertising  man,  name  of 
Hiram  P.  Dugway,  who  was  always  running  for  mayor  or 
district  attorney  on  some  obscure  little  reform  ticket.  A 
bit  of  a  born  reformer,  but  bright  enough.  Knew  the  town 
through  and  through.  Delighted  in  denouncing  the  "Big 
Cinch."  And  Holmes  Hitt,  promptly  sensing  amusement, 
undertook  to  call  him  up  and  have  him  at  the  hotel  within 
ten  minutes,  if  he  was  in  his  office. 

He  was  in  his  office ;  and  was  delighted  to  look  up  Henry 
Calverly. 

He  was  a  neatly  dressed  young  man,  this  Mr.  Dugway, 
of  pleasant  manner  and  not  untouched  with  imagination. 

This  was  the  period,  it  is  to  be  recalled,  in  the  earlier 
years  of  the  first  decade  of  the  twentieth  century,  when 
eager  young  reformers  were  everywhere  beating  down  the 
established  idols  of  trade,  politics  and  finance.  Roosevelt 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  385 

was  president,  and  was  himself  actively  tearing  to  pieces 
the  old,  undoubtedly  corrupt  machinery  of  party  politics 
and  substituting  for  it  a  fresh  ideal  of  public  service.  Rich 
men — "malefactors  of  great  wealth,"  the  phrase-coining 
president  had  dubbed  them — were  everywhere  on  the  de- 
fensive. There  was  eager  excited  talk  of  a  new  sort  of 
democracy.  A  great  nation  that  had  for  a  century  and 
more  called  itself  young,  was  stirring  and  arousing  to  the 
astonishing  discovery  that  it  was  in  reality  old  and  back- 
ward, was  examining  with  sudden  feverish  energy  its  set- 
tled bad  habits  and  striking  out  to  form  a  new  sort  of  good 
habits,  was  purging  itself  and  facing  the  new  century  with 
new  eyes.  There  were  dreams  of  a  happier  era  for  the  hu- 
man race,  when  all  the  miracles  of  applied  science,  all  the 
amazing  new  material  equipment  of  civilization,  were  to  be 
brought  into  the  service  of  still  newer  social  ideals.  Every 
one,  somehow,  was  to  be  happy.  Education  was  to  be  put 
on  a  new  plane.  The  immense  producing  power  of  society, 
better  organized,  was  to  be  used  in  some  way  as  yet  a  little 
vague  through  some  equally  vague  fresh  method  of  distri- 
bution to  enhance  individual  life  everywhere.  Every  other 
prosperous  family  indulged  its  own  young  socialist ;  yet  no 
one  clearly  knew,  beyond  the  phrases,  what  socialism  was 
or  meant.  Few  perceived,  in  America,  that  beneath 
this  dream-surface — itself  probably  a  result  of  ma- 
terial plenty — rough,  primitive  animal  life  was  stripping  and 
arming  itself  for  the  most  bloodthirsty  war  ever  fought  by 
man ;  for,  in  so  far  as  it  might  be  able  to  compass  it,  the 
destruction  of  all  organized  society  and  a  new  crude  begin- 
ning on  the  ruins  of  a  great  and,  on  the  whole,  happy  epoch. 
It  was,  then,  the  day  of  youth  and  hope  and  young  causes, 
when  each  eager  young  social  Messiah  found  a  nervously 
receptive  audience  awaiting  him. 

It  was  on  this  plane  of  thought — uncrystallized,  even 
undefined,  yet  clearly  enough  felt — that  Henry  Calverly  and 
Hiram  Dugway  clasped  hands. 

With  Humphrey  Weaver  they  stepped  into  a  taxicab  and 
were  whirled  up  the  Hill  to  the  Cantey  home. 


386 

Miriam  and  Mr.  Ainme  were  waiting  in  the  study,  rather 
stiffly  making  talk. 

Henry  presented  his  new  and  his  old  friend. 

At  sight  of  the  rebelliously  young  Mr.  Dugway  Mr. 
Amme's  little  gray  beard  pressed  firmly  upward  against  his 
neatly  trimmed  mustache,  and  his  bald  shining  head  drew 
up  and  back. 

Dugway,  who  had  been  able  to  gather  little  beyond  the 
fact  that  he  was  being  employed  by  two  likable  outsiders 
in  some  extraordinary  but  delightful  upheaval  within  the 
sacrosanct  confines  of  Cantey  Estate,  smiled  quietly  and  a 
little  demurely,  bowed  to  the  oddly  radiant  Miss  Cantey, 
and  found  a  chair.  Upheavals  of  any  sort  delighted  his 
soul.  Cantey  Estate  was,  to  local  reformers,  the  very  Citadel 
of  "Privilege." 

Humphrey  Weaver  knew  instantly  when  Miss  Cantey's 
hand  met  his,  and  her  blue  eyes  swiftly  took  him  in,  that 
he  had  made  a  new  friend.  And  he  knew,  before  a  word 
had  been  spoken,  that  she  knew  it  as  well  as  he. 

They  sat  about  the  room.  Mr.  Amme,  who  was  accus- 
tomed to  guiding  discussion,  appeared  to  be  about  to  ask 
the  meaning  of  this  really  extraordinary  gathering  when 
Miriam  forestalled  him. 

She  spoke  quickly,  nervously;  but  said  just  what  she 
meant  in  the  fewest  words  possible. 

"My  father's  estate  has  been  administered  by  three  trus- 
tees until  to-day.  I  believe  the  Trust  has  now  expired." 

Mr.  Amme  nodded  professionally.    "At  noon,"  he  said. 

"It  has  been  proposed  that  I  agree  to  a  renewal  of  the 
Trust.  I  feel  that  I  can  not  do  that.  As  the  property  is  now 
in  my  hands,  and  as  I  can't  very  well  manage  it  personally, 
I've  asked  you  gentlemen  here  to  advise  in  drawing  up  a 
paper — a  power  of  attorney? — giving  Mr.  Calverly  absolute 
right  to  act  for  me." 

Humphrey's  hand  came  down  on  his  knee  with  a  start- 
lingly  loud  sound. 

Mr.  Amme  sat  motionless,  stunned;  grew  older  before 
their  eyes. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  387 

Dugway's  faint  hovering  smile  broadened  a  little. 

Then  they  went  at  it.  Mr.  Amme  quietly  raised  little 
difficulties ;  very  technical,  lawyer-like,  designed  first  to  ob- 
struct, later  to  weaken  the  document.  Dugvvay  met  him 
skilfully.  Humphrey  made  a  few  shrewd  suggestions. 
And  Miriam  was  surprisingly  clear.  The  document,  as 
finally  drawn,  was  brief  and  clear.  Miriam  signed  it 
proudly.  The  others  signed  as  witnesses.  Mr.  Amme  found 
it  difficult  to  refuse. 

Miriam  then  asked  Dugway  to  act  as  her  attorney  in  re- 
ceiving and  checking  up  the  final  report  of  the  trustees  on 
all  the  properties. 

And  then,  with  a  formal  leave-taking,  Mr.  Amme  locked 
his  portfolio  and  left  the  house. 

Embarrassment  followed. 

Dugway  drew  Henry  to  the  window  for  a  talk. 

Humphrey,  a  question  in  his  quizzical  eyes,  his  long 
dark  face  wrinkling  into  a  kindly  smile,  moved  to  Miriam's 
side. 

"You've  taken  an  extraordinary  step,  Miss  Cantey,"  he 
said. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "and  I'm  so  glad." 

"A  wise  step,  I  think,"  he  went  on ;  "of  course,  Henry  is 
the  worst  business  man  on  earth." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  she,  with  an  unmistakably  happy 
smile. 

"He'd  be  no  good  on  the  details.  But — you'll  let  me  say 
this,  Miss  Cantey?" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"I've  known  Henry  many  years.  It  was  in  my  rooms 
that  he  wrote  that  first  book.  I've  seen  him  in  success  and 
in — well,  disaster.  And  I  love  him." 

"O-oh !"  she  breathed  excitedly,  glancing  up  at  him,  all 
quick  delicate  color,  "so  do  I." 

Then  her  eyes  dropped. 

He  was  silent. 

"Why  not,"  she  said  then,  "why  not  tell  ?  I— I  am  trust- 
ing him  with  my  life,  Mr.  Weaver." 


388  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

"I  gathered  that.    And  you  will  be  proud  of  him." 

"I  am  now." 

"Yes,  but  we  were  saying    .     .     ." 

"Oh,  yes ;  about  the  business  details.     .     .     ." 

"Yes.  He'd  fumble  those.  But  there  are  always  people 
for  details.  In  the  real  essentials  you'll  find  him  the — well, 
the  Tightest  man  on  earth." 

"I  know,"  she  murmured,  smiling  over  his  emphasis  on 
that  odd  word  "rightest."  She  liked  the  colloquial  emphasis 
in  this  man's  speech.  She  felt  in  it  something  of  her  fath- 
er's rich  vocabulary.  That  word,  "fumble,"  too.  It  brought 
to  mind  an  amusing  picture. 

"That's  the  point  with  Hen,"  he  pressed  on.  "He's  so 
eternally  right.  Dishonesty,  meanness,  make  him  uncom- 
fortable. He  feels  them  instantly.  And  he  can't  keep  still 
about  them.  I'm  glad  he  is  to  have  happiness  at  last.  Life 
has  gone  pretty  hard  with  him.  And  they've  never  let  him 
alone.  It's  a  wonder  they  haven't  crushed  all  the  spirit  out 
of  him.  But — look  at  him !" 

This  last  phrase  was  in  a  low  tone;  for  Henry,  all  sup- 
pressed excitement,  was  charging  across  the  room  at  them. 

"Hump,"  he  was  saying,  "are  you  good  for  a  night  of  it? 
Dugway  and  I  are  going  to  Cincinnati." 

"To  Cincinnati  ?" 

"Yes.  It's  the  first  thing.  I'll  tell  you  about  it.  Dug- 
way's  going  to  call  up  about  trains." 

"You  could  take  the  touring  car,"  suggested  Miriam. 

This  took  Henry  by  surprise.  Speech  left  him.  It  was 
going  to  be  nearly  as  difficult  for  him  to  realize  the  mean- 
ing of  Miriam's  wealth  in  terms  of  personal  convenience 
and  luxury  as  it  had  been  in  the  case  of  his  own  wealth, 
when  it  lay,  undesired,  at  his  hand. 

"Of  course,"  said  Humphrey.  "That  will  really  save 
time.  We  can  get  back  some  time  in  the  morning." 

"There's  the  County  Railways  meeting  to-morrow  after- 
noon," said  Miriam.  "That's  important,  isn't  it?" 

"We'll  be  there,"  was  Henry's  cheerful  reply. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  389 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  at  that  meeting?"  asked  the 
practical  Humphrey. 

"Don't  know.  We'll  have  to  think  that  out  as  we  go 
along.  Or  after  we  get  there.  .  .  .  One  thing,  if  there 
is  a  Cantey  political  machine,  and  they  tell  me  there  is,  we'll 
use  it  to  put  Dugway  in  as  mayor." 

They  rode  all  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  and  on  into 
the  night,  through  villages,  towns  and  cities,  across  vast 
reaches  of  yellow  prairie  land. 

At  last  they  found  themselves  speeding  in  through  the 
suburbs  of  the  large  city  by  the  river,  and  then  rolling  on 
into  the  business  district  among  the  high  buildings.  A  few 
inquiries  along  the  way  brought  them  to  the  ten-story 
structure  that  housed  a  certain  newspaper. 

They  walked  up  and  down  the  pavement  to  stretch  their 
stiff  muscles.  Then  they  stepped  into  an  elevator  and 
moved  upward. 

The  odor  that  hovers  about  every  printing  house  in  the 
world  floated  to  their  nostrils  as  the  elevator  as- 
cended. It  can  not  be  discribed ;  but  there  is  the  smell  of 
damp  print  paper  in  it,  and  ink,  and  machine  oil.  It  is 
quite  distinctive.  Sometimes  you  catch  a  whiff  of  it  from 
your  morning  paper;  or  even,  faintly,  from  a  book,  if  you 
hold  the  opened  leaves  close  to  the  nose. 

Henry  and  Humphrey  sniffed  it  at  the  same  moment. 
Their  eyes  met,  each  alive  with  quick  gentle  memories.  It 
was  the  smell  of  the  old  front  room — business  office  and 
editor's  sanctum  in  one,  where  they  had  worked  side  by 
side — of  The  Weekly  Voice  of  Sunbury.  It  was  the  smell 
of  the  Gleaner  offke,  one  long  flight  up,  over  Hemple's  meat 
market,  where,  a  little  later,  the  firm  known  as  "Weaver 
&  Calverly"  had  struggled  through  a  stormy  business  experi- 
ence after  buying  out  Robert  A.  McGibbon.  And  both  these 
men  loved  it,  as  the  old  rider  loves  the  smell  of  tanback. 
They  had  never  been  so  close  in  friendship  as  now,  these 
two  curiously  different  men.  Humphrey's  heart  was  still 
warm,  besides,  from  that  unpremeditated  little  speech  he 


390  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

had  made  to  Miriam.  And  Henry,  now  that  he  was 
definitely  "a  going  concern,"  had  forgotten  the  gulf  that  lay 
between  them  when  they  met  in  the  Union  Station  and, 
later,  when  they  breakfasted  at  the  Rivoli.  The  world  had 
spun  round  since  then.  To-night  Henry  was  treading  the 
stars. 

Henry  asked  for  Mr.  Winterbeck.  It  seemed  that  he  was 
night  city  editor  here. 

They  were  kept  waiting  for  a  time.  Then  Henry  grew 
impatient  and  prowled  about  outside  the  railing,  hunting  for 
the  office  boy.  Finally,  he  caught  the  eye  of  a  reporter  at 
one  of  the  desks.  And  at  last  the  three  of  them  were 
shown  back  behind  a  jog  in  the  wall  to  a  wide  desk  where 
sat  Frank  Winterbeck,  broad  of  shoulder,  low  but  sharp 
in  speech,  impassive  of  face,  the  inevitable  two  or  three 
telephones  at  his  elbow. 

He  looked  up  without  a  smile. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Calverly,"  he  said,  as  if  this  sud- 
den appearance  were  a  common  occurrence.  "Our  man  is 
trying  to  find  you  up  in  your  town.  Have  you  seen  this?" 

It  was  a  typed  note  asking  for  verification  of  the  rumor 
that  Miss  Miriam  Cantey  had  announced  her  engagement  to 
Mr.  Henry  Calverly,  the  author. 

"No,  I  haven't,"  said  that  young  man. 

"Anything  to  say?" 

"Not  about  that.    But  about  this,  yes." 

He  spread  before  Winterbeck  the  document  they  had 
drawn  up  that  day. 

The  editor  read  it  swiftly  but  carefully,  his  face  impas- 
sive as  ever.  Then  came  a  telephone  interruption;  for  a 
few  moments  he  was  busy.  Reporters  came  and  went.  He 
glanced  over  typewritten  sheets,  scrawled  cabalistic  signs 
on  them;  tossed  them  to  an  assistant,  who  rolled  them  in 
brass  carriers  and  shot  them  down  tubes. 

In  the  next  free  moment  he  asked : 

"Is  this  for  publication  ?" 

"Decidedly  not,"  said  Henry.  "It's  for  you — my  author- 
ity. I  want  you  back  on  the  News." 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  391 

"In  what  capacity?" 

"Publisher." 

For  just  a  moment  Winterbeck  seemed  to  be  holding  his 
breath.  Then  he  asked: 

"Where's  Mr.  Listerly?" 

"Anywhere  you  suggest." 

"I  can't  work  with  him." 

"Then  he'll  go." 

"When  would  you  want  me?" 

"To-night." 

"I  could  arrange  to  come  to-morrow.  But  what  will  you 
expect  of  me?" 

"I  want  to  read  the  kind  of  newspaper  I  think  you'd  like 
to  make." 

Winterbeck  indulged  in  a  soft  whistle. 

"That's  a  wonderful  opportunity,  Mr.  Calverly.  But  what 
makes  you  think  we  could  get  away  with  it.  The  old  town'll 
still  be  there." 

"No,"  put  in  Dugway,  his  first  words,  "it's  going  to  be  a 
new  town." 

Henry  was  frowning  a  little,  deep  in  thought. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "couldn't  you  come  back 
with  us  to-night?" 

"That's  pretty  quick.  Perhaps,  when  I  lock  up,  I  could 
ask  the  chief.  But  why  ?  What's  up  ?" 

"Everything.  It's  a  sort  of  emergency.  We're  going  into 
the  County  Railways  meeting  to-morrow.  We  want  you 
handy.  You  know  the  town.  And  we  don't  want  the  News 
wobbling  at  such  a  time." 

Winterbeck  looked  at  him  in  frank  admiration. 

"Have  you  a  car  here?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Well— thunder— I'll  go  if  the  chief'll  stand  for  it." 

The  chief  stood  for  it.    He  went. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FIVE 

Mere  Business  Details;  a  New  Publisher,  a  Still  Newer 

President  and  General  Manager,  and  the  Beginning 

of  a  Long  Fight.    A  Word,  Too,  about  Hittic 

and  the  Instinct  of  the  Race 

IT  WAS  the  habit  of  R.  B.  Listerly  to  appear  at  the  News 
Annex  at  one  o'clock.  He  came,  on  the  Wednesday,  a 
little  late,  direct  from  Amme's  office. 

Beneath  him  the  firm  earth  had  melted.  Suddenly,  for 
the  whim  of  a  girl,  the  intricate  local  fabric  of  trade  and 
credit  had  gone  threadbare;  appeared  as  what  it  actually 
was,  a  fabric,  nothing  more.  Whispers  were  flying  about 
Cantey  Square  and  farther  down-town.  In  response  to  dis- 
turbed and  disturbing  questions,  close-lipped  men,  behind 
mahogany  in  the  Trust  Company,  in  the  Cantey  National, 
in  other  banks,  shook  their  heads  non-committally ;  advised 
waiting  and  seeing. 

County  Railways  shares  were  dropping.  No  one  knew,  in 
fact,  what  might  happen,  overnight,  to  County  Railways. 
In  inner  circles  it  was  understood  that  there  was  no  way  of 
finding  out.  It  seemed  to  hang  on  whatever  might  be  de- 
cided by  Miss  Cantey,  or  by  this  young  outsider  she  now,  it 
was  known,  purposed  marrying.  For  the  first  time  in  its 
history,  County  Railways  faced  an  annual  meeting  for 
which  the  management  had  no  set  plan. 

The  Town  Club  was  crowded  at  noon.  Men,  lunching  in 
quiet  little  groups  of  two  and  three  and  four,  or  lounging 
about  the  main  hall,  watched  for  Harvey  O'Rell,  for  Amme 
and  Listerly,  even  for  their  lesser  associates.  None  of  these 
appeared.  O'Rell  was  at  home,  deep  in  a  conference  with 
Oswald  Qualters.  And  Listerly,  who  hadn't  much  appetite 
to-day,  nibbled  a  sandwich  up  in  Amme's  office,  and  sipped 
dispiritedly  a  glass  of  milk.  So  far  as  the  News  was  con- 

392 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  393 

cerned,  the  only  possible  course  was  to  sit  back  and  wait. 
Anything  might  develop,  or  nothing.  It  was  disturbing,  un- 
settling. But  there  seemed  the  chance  that  they'd  let  the 
paper  alone.  Under  Listerly  it  was  a  richly  paying  prop- 
erty. They  couldn't  get  around  that. 

Queer  stories  were  afloat  about  the  mayor.  The  day 
before  he  had  visited  the  Savings  Vault  with  a  political 
friend  and  a  suit-case.  One  of  the  stories  was  to  the  effect 
that  he  had  been  seen  leaving  town  in  an  automobile  loaded 
with  baggage.  The  rumor  appeared  to  be  general  that  a 
furniture  moving  firm  was  dismantling  his  house.  But  of 
all  this  not  a  word  had  appeared  as  yet  in  the  newspapers. 
A  queer  rumor  that  he  had,  in  some  curiously  irresponsible 
manner,  resigned  his  office,  had  drifted  out  from  associates 
of  the  chief  of  police,  but  stood  unverified.  Telephone  calls 
on  his  office  in  the  city  hall  brought  nothing  more  than  the 
stereotyped  phrase,  from  a  nearly  distracted  official  secre- 
tary, that  the  mayor  was  not  in.  And  it  wasn't  known  when 
he  would  be.  At  his  house  a  brisk  feminine  voice  invariably 
answered  to  the  same  effect.  And  the  mayor's  sister,  at 
her  own  home,  said  flatly,  with  irritation  that  increased 
during  the  day,  that  she  knew  nothing  whatever  about  him. 

Listerly,  distrait  in  manner,  a  settled  tired  look  about  his 
eyes  and  mouth,  stepped  from  the  elevator  and  moved  along 
the  corridor  of  the  eighth  floor  to  his  private  door. 

The  waiting-room  door  stood  open.  As  he  passed  he 
was  aware  of  figures,  two  or  three,  sitting  in  there.  He 
didn't  turn  to  look.  But  he  thought  one  of  them  started  up. 

He  hung  up  hat  and  coat  and  dropped  into  his  swivel 
chair.  A  thick  heap  of  mail  lay  before  him,  under  a  paper- 
weight. He  looked  heavily  at  it.  He  was  unquestionably 
tired.  "Bad  way  to  start  the  day,"  he  thought.  "Who 
could  those  men  be,  out  there,  beyond  the  closed  door.  Was 
it  possible  that  Calverly  .  .  .  already  .  .  .?" 

His  fingers  reached  for  the  paper-weight ;  fumbled  with  it. 

His  secretary  came  in. 

"Mr.  Calverly  wants  to  see  you,"  she  remarked.    "Two 


394  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

other  gentlemen  are  with  him.  One  is  Mr.  Winterbeck, 
who  used  to  be  here." 

"I'll  see  them,"  said  Mr.  Listerly. 

The  third  man  proved  to  be  a  knowing  quiet  chap.  Name 
of  Weaver.  Apparently  from  New  York. 

They  took  chairs. 

"Well,  gentlemen?"  was  all  Listerly  could  say,  looking 
from  one  to  another  of  them. 

Then,  to  his  surprise — there  was  even  a  slight  element 
of  shock  in  the  experience,  so  unexpected  was  it — the 
strange  young  genius  known  as  Henry  Calverly,  took  hold. 

"Mr.  Listerly,"  he  said,  quietly,  rather  gently,  "I  am 
here  representing  Cantey  Estate — " 

Listerly  broke  in  here,  with  a  "Yes,  Mr.  Calverly,  I  under- 
stand about  that." 

"I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Listerly,  but  I  must  ask  for  your  resig- 
nation, to  take  effect  immediately."  Listerly  reached  for  a 
pen ;  wrote  his  resignation  in  a  sentence ;  signed  it ;  handed 
it  politely  across  the  desk. 

Calverly  took  it.  "Mr.  Winterbeck  will  take  charge  of 
the  paper,"  he  said. 

Listerly  bowed  to  that  strong,  serious  young  man. 

"I  will,  of  course,  be  glad  to  help  in  any  way." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Listerly.  Don't  feel  that  you  must 
hurry.  I'll  work  in  another  corner  until  you  have  your 
things  out." 

They  stood  about  then,  and  spoke  for  a  moment  or  two  on 
trifling  topics.  Then  Henry  and  Humphrey  went  on  to  the 
County  Railways  meeting,  leaving  Frank  Winterbeck  in 
command  of  the  paper  from  which  he  had  been  discharged 
for  truth-telling.  There  was  a  thrill  in  the  experience. 

The  Board  of  County  Railways  met  in  the  Cantey 
National  Bank  Building.  Dugway  was  in  the  hall,  smilingly 
silent  in  the  face  of  a  bombardment  of  questions  from  re- 
porters, and  entered  with  Henry,  while  Humphrey  stepped 
over  to  the  hotel  to  catch  up,  in  some  measure,  with  his 
rapidly  accumulating  business  correspondence. 

They  stood  or  sat  about  the  room,  quiet,  habitually  pow- 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  395 

erful  men:  Hannibal  Simmons,  Harvey  O'Rell,  Atnme, 
Oswald  Quakers,  several  other  bankers  and  lawyers,  Will 
Appleby.  Listerly,  it  appeared,  couldn't  be  present. 

The  earliest  of  new  business  was  the  electing  of  Henry 
Calverly  to  the  Board.  Amme  and  O'Rell  put  this  through 
briskly.  Then,  with  Dugway  at  his  elbow,  Henry  took  his 
seat  at  the  long  table. 

Dugway  had  said,  in  the  hall,  "As  a  matter  of  common 
business  decency,  Mr.  Calverly,  Harvey  O'Rell  will  have 
to  stay  a  little  while  with  the  company.  We  can't  be  ex- 
pected to  find  our  new  manager  overnight.  O'Rell  is  a 
hard  proposition,  but  he  won't  want  to  put  an  item  of  petu- 
lant wrecking  on  his  business  record." 

But  as  business  is  little  else  than  the  eternal  human  strug- 
gle expressed  in  terms  of  our  own  time,  so  human  quality 
often  and  unexpectedly  intrudes  into  business  councils. 

O'Rell  demanded  that  his  resignation  take  effect  imme- 
diately. He  was  thoroughly  angry. 

Even  the  grim  fact  of  that  bit  of  paper  for  so  long  in 
Jim  Cantey's  hands,  now  in  the  hands  of  this  same  Henry 
Calverly,  convicting  him  as  a  bribe-giver,  bore  not  the 
slightest  weight  in  his  decision.  He  was  a  strong  man. 
Flatly,  clearly,  he  didn't  care  what  happened  to  the  Com- 
pany. And  he  seemed  to  feel  competent  to  handle  any  per- 
sonal difficulties. 

Even  his  old  associates  on  the  Board  were  aroused  against 
him.  There  was  not  one  but  had  money  in  the  business; 
not  one  cared  to  throw  his  holdings  on  a  falling  market. 

Henry  and  Dugway  whispered  together. 

"It's  a  fix,"  said  the  lawyer.  "He  means  it.  He  knows 
he's  got  you  in  a  hole." 

"What  do  you  think  we  can  do?" 

Dugway  pondered. 

Henry  turned  back  to  the  table.  "Since  Mr.  O'Rell  finds 
himself  unable  to  give  the  Company  any  further  assistance, 
I  move  you  that  the  position  of  general  manager  be  offered 
to  Mr.  Humphrey  Weaver." 

There  was  utter  silence  in  the  room.    Then  a  question  or 


396  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

two  was  asked.  But  as  nearly  sixty  per  cent,  of  the  capital 
stock  of  the  Company  now  lay  under  the  irresponsible  hand 
of  this  young  Mr.  Calverly,  to  be  voted  as  he  might  choose, 
the  motion  found  a  seconder  and  went  through. 

Humphrey,  called  by  wire,  a  little  puzzled  by  the  peremp- 
tory nature  of  the  summons,  came  across  the  square. 

He  found  Henry  and  his  lawyer  waiting  on  the  steps  of 
the  building. 

"Hump,"  said  Hen,  who  appeared  to  be  suppressing  an 
impulse  to  chuckle,  "I've  just  done  an  awful  thing  to  you. 
You  are  now  President  and  General  Manager  of  County 
Railways." 

""We're  arranging  the  transfer  of  a  little  stock,  Mr. 
Weaver,"  thus  Dugway  himself  in  some  excitement.  "You're 
elected  to  the  Board.  Of  course,  you'll  have  to  preside." 

Humphrey  said,  "Good  God!" 

There  was  quick  eager  talk. 

"It's  impossible!"  cried  Hump. 

"No" — Henry  seemed  now  cool,  unshakable — "no,  Hump, 
you're  an  engineer,  you're  used  to  the  ways  of  corporations, 
you've  got  brains  and  character,  you're  in  sympathy  with  all 
we  hope  to  do.  .  .  .  No,  the  more  I  think  of  it  the 
more  clearly  I  see  that  you're  the  man.  I'm  afraid  you'll 
just  have  to  arrange  your  other  affairs  and  take  hold." 

All  this  out  there  on  the  steps. 

Humphrey  stood  motionless  for  a  long  moment.  His  face 
wrinkled  in  thought. 

He  looked  up,  quizzically,  from  Dugway  to  Henry. 

"It's  the  sportiest  thing  I  ever  heard  of,"  he  remarked 
thoughtfully,  "but  I'll"— his  eyes  lighted— "I'll  do  it." 

A  moment  later  the  three  entered  the  Board  room.  And 
the  bewildered,  angry  gentlemen  of  the  Board  found  them- 
selves, one  by  one,  taking  the  hand  of  the  astonishing  Mr. 
Weaver,  a  youngish  man,  direct  of  eye,  quiet  in  manner, 
clearly,  to  their  keen  eyes,  a  vigorous,  forcible  thinker,  a 
man,  who,  surprisingly,  spoke  their  language.  It  was,  in 
some  degree,  reassuring.  It  was  depressing  to  Harvey 
O'Rell. 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  397 

Oswald  Quakers  caught  up  with  them  in  the  hall. 

"Mr.  Weaver,"  he  remarked,  pleasantly,  "I  won't  say  I 
haven't  dreaded  this  little  upheaval.  But  I  like  your  looks 
and  I'm  going  to  help  you  all  I  can.  The  city  won't  be 
any  the  worse  for  a  little  toning  up.  And  I'm  beginning  to 
think  we're  going  to  get  it — just  that.  Good  luck  to  you! 
And  call  on  me,  if  I  can  help  you." 

Then  he  said  this  to  Henry : 

"Well,  Calverly,  you're  having  such  an  experience  as  falls 
to  few  writers.  I  suppose  we  may  expect  novels  of  business 
life  now.  Not  a  bad  idea.  Drop  in  on  me  now  and  then. 
I  don't  see  enough  of  you.  We  don't  run  across  much  in 
the  way  of  refreshing  ideas  in  this  town.  Or  we  didn't 
before  you  turned  up.  You're  good  for  us,  at  that.  We 
didn't  know  it,  but  we  needed  you." 

As  he  walked  off  toward  the  elevator  and  his  own  office, 
Dugway  remarked  quietly,  with  a  little  shake  of  the  head, 
''He'll  never  let  go,  Mr.  Calverly.  Our  fight  has  only 
begun." 

Henry  found  an  hour  for  Miriam  in  the  evening.  They 
sat  before  a  glowing  fire  in  her  sitting-room. 

"I've  been  thinking  about  Mr.  Hitt,"  she  said.  "I'm  not 
altogether  clear  in  my  mind.  You're  going  on  with  your 
book,  of  course.  You'll  have  to." 

"I  know,"  said  he,  very  thoughtfully  and  deeply  happy. 
"I'll  have  to.  If  you  could  hear  Guard  talk  .  .  ." 

"Of  course,  Henry,  but  ...  I  hate,  in  a  way,  to 
compromise  on  this  thing  .  .  .  but  maybe,  since  you're 
going  to  express  father's  spirit  so  wonderfully  in  your 
own  book,  we  might  let  the  formal  biography  go  on,  too. 
Only  .  .  ." 

"You're  thinking  of  keeping  Mr.  Hitt  busy." 

"Yes.    That,  and     .     .     ." 

"I've  no  doubt  Winterbeck  could  always  make  room  for 
him  on  the  News." 

"But  perhaps  he'd  better  do  the  book  first.  Of  course, 
it  will  be  just  what  father  hated  so.  But  a  letter  came  to- 
day, Henry,  from  some  other  publishers.  They  want  to  do 


398  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

a  life  of  father  in  a  series  of  volumes  on  what  they  call 
The  Makers  of  Young  America.  It's  occurred  to  me  that 
people  will  be  doing  biographies,  with  our  consent  or  with- 
out." 

"Hm !"  mused  Henry.    "I  hadn't  thought  of  that." 

"It  would  be  rather  painful  to  find  life  beating  us,  after 
all — swamping  our  feelings,  and  father's — bringing  his  mem- 
ory down  to  the  conventional  average,  along  with  every- 
thing else.  And,  of  course,  if  it  would  only  mean — his 
view — that  they'd  call  him  bad  and  let  it  go  at  that  .  . 
that  would  hurt,  of  course." 

"Of  course,"  said  Henry,  slowly  and  thoughtfully,  "that 
would  hurt.  It's  a  question,  I  suppose,  to  what  extent  indi- 
vidual opinion  can  survive  when  it's  opposed  to  what  seems 
to  be  the  instinct  of  the  race.  When  I  get  to  thinking  about 
that,  I — well,  it  puzzles  me." 

"And  me,"  she  admitted. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-SIX 

Touching,  With  a  Smile,  on  Critics,  the  Pattern,  and  Tennis 

HENRY  CALVERLY'S  third  book  was  called  simply, 
The  Builder.  It  rode  into  the  public  ken  on  a  wave, 
almost  a  tidal  wave,  of  shrewdly  devised  "publicity."  Be- 
ginning before  the  extensive  comment  on  his  renunciation 
of  the  Walt  fortune  had  died  down,  and  nearly  coinciding 
with  the  news  of  his  romantic  engagement  and  marriage  to 
the  interesting  younger  daughter  of  the  famous  James  H. 
Cantey,  interest  in  the  forthcoming  volume  mounted  stead- 
ily. Fresh  and  widely-advertised  editions  of  Satraps  of  the 
Simple  appeared,  one  of  them  a  "gift  edition"  in  leather, 
specially  autographed  by  the  author. 

Henry  signed  these  few  hundred  copies  without  any 
particular  thought  as  to  their  significance.  It  was  gratify- 
ing to  see  the  work  of  his  pen  so  handsomely  printed  and 
bound.  And  it  was  naturally  pleasant  to  feel  that  a  grow- 
ing public  was  again  his.  He  asked  no  questions  of  it; 
merely  worked  the  harder  on  the  new  book,  stimulated  by 
thoughts  of  healthy  honest  success. 

On  the  day  of  publication  Miriam  and  Henry,  a  few 
months  married,  sailed  for  Bermuda  to  play  and  rest.  They 
were  utterly  happy,  in  work,  in  life,  in  each  other. 

With  returning  health,  Miriam  was  growing  to  a  surpris- 
ing extent  in  vigor,  color,  humor.  She  mothered  Henry, 
taking  from  day  to  day  and  week  to  week  an  increasing 
delight  in  his  curious  mixture  of  acute  perception  and  ma- 
ture judgment  with  absurdedly  boyish  naivete.  She  pro- 
tected him  from  the  distracting  world.  Once  or  twice  dur- 
ing the  later  progress  of  the  book  she  spirited  him  away  for 
a  little  rest.  One  such  trip  was  to  his  boyhood  home  in 
Sunbury.  Here,  unknown  to  old  associates,  he  motored 
about  with  her,  walked  and  picnicked  by  the  great  lake 

399 


400  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

that,  with  the  maples  and  oaks  that  made  almost  a  forest 
of  the  village,  had  curiously  dominated  his  youthful  mind. 
And  finally  he  came  to  confiding  in  her  about  Cicely,  and 
that  boyhood  marriage.  The  Cantey  honesty,  the  odd  quiet 
directness  of  thought,  that  grew  in  her  with  health,  made 
this  possible.  She  felt,  I  think,  for  that  young  Henry  and 
his  girl  wife,  so  sadly  dead,  a  deep  gentle  affection. 

Miriam  Cantey  was  extraordinarily  beautiful  at  this  time. 
Her  vivid  though  subtle  coloring  was  probably  at  its  best 
during  this  period.  Curiously,  the  color  in  her  skin  was 
never  particularly  high ;  yet  color  was  and  was  always  to 
be  her  most  striking  personal  attribute.  It  was  a  matter, 
partly,  of  what  we  have  called  extra  pigmentation.  It  was 
a  manifestation  of  the  inherent  vigor  of  the  Cantey  stock. 

On  a  morning,  in  Bermuda,  a  ship  came  in  from  New 
York,  red,  white  and  black,  picking  her  way  among  the 
islands,  past  the  white  hotel  by  the  blue  water,  to  the  sunny, 
sleepy  wharf. 

Shortly,  mail  appeared  at  the  hotel.  And  this  mail,  a  bit 
of  it,  affected  Henry  curiously ;  depressed  him ;  drove  him, 
with  a  touch  of  unconvincing  gaiety  that  was  meant  for  and 
was  an  apology,  down  to  the  waterside. 

Miriam,  with  a  thoughtful  glance,  let  him  go,  and  read 
her  own  letters.  Though  her  thoughts  drifted  back  more 
than  once  to  the  large  yellow  envelope — a  fat  envelope — 
that  had  so  stirred  him. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  joined  him. 

He  lay  on  the  sand ;  moody ;  very  still.  The  yellow  en- 
velope lay,  with  others,  beside  him. 

He  watched  her  approaching.  Moody  or  not,  it  stirred 
him  to  see  her  walking  with  that  easy  unconscious  grace. 
She  was  all  in  white,  as  was  he ;  they  had  planned  a  little 
tennis  for  the  later  morning. 

She  dropped  beside  him  on  the  sand,  and  dug  tunnels, 
girlishly. 

Finally  she  remarked : 

"Want  to  be  let  alone,  dear;  or  would  it  help  you  to 
sputter?" 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  401 

"Why  .  .  .  stay  here,  please.  Yes,  I'll  sputter."  He 
had  to  smile.  "It's  the  reviews." 

"Of  the  book?  Oh,  Henry,  you  don't  mean  that  they're 
bad." 

"Not  that,  no.  I  suppose  they're  wonderful,  really.  But 
my  eye  fell  on  certain  paragraphs  .  .  .  they  bewilder 
me." 

"Why?" 

"Oh  ...  it  ...  well,  here!  Read  some  of 
these." 

She  did.    He  waited. 

"They're  wonderful,"  she  said,  finally.  "Oh,  Henry, 
wonderful !  Listen !"  And  she  read  from  one  and  another. 
"Henry,  dear  boy,  I'm  so  proud!  What  disturbed  you?" 

"Well — they're  like  a  biography.  They  all  talk  about 
Satraps  and  then  they  all  just  cut  my  life  out  as  it  was 
between  that  book  and  this.  The  very  papers  that  pub- 
lished all  the  prison  story — the  papers  that  hounded  me  so 
— all  ignore  it  now.  They  just  pretend  it  never  happened. 
Even  all  the  talk  about  me  when — when  Madame  Watt  died 
— they  ignore  that,  too." 

"I  wonder  if  you  should  object  to  that." 

"I  hate  it.  It's  as  if  they'd  decided  that  I'm  respectable 
enough  now  to  make  possible  a  common  agreement  among 
the  papers  to  ignore  the  dreadful  past.  The  very  reasons 
they  give  for  what  they're  good  enough  to  call  my  growth 
in  'style' — whatever  that  is — are  all  wrong.  They  must 
knows  it.  Good  lord,  they  must  know  that  if  I  am  writing 
better  it  is  because  I  had  those  hard  years." 

"  'Out  of  my  deep  hurt  make  I  my  little  songs/  "  quoted 
Miriam,  tenderly. 

"Yes!  That!  But  will  they  look  all  that  in  the  face? 
Never!  .  .  .  It's  our  old  Anglo-Saxon  conspiracy  to 
keep  the  facts  of  life  suppressed.  It's  what  Hittie  calls  the 
Pattern.  Why,  listen  to  this !  And  he  read : 

"  'Mr.  Calverly  has  set  an  example  of  Spartan  self-con- 
trol that  our  horde  of  young  writers  would  do  well  to  fol- 
low. Satraps  of  the  Simple  appeared  at  least  five  years 


402  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM 

ago.  Since  then  he  has  published  only  one  other  book, 
which,  from  its  subject  and  treatment,  was  clearly  a  by- 
product of  the  studies  he  must  have  made  while  preparing 
the  ground  work  of  The  Builder.  We  may,  then,  dismiss 
the  second  work  by  terming  it  a  collection  of  chips  from  Mr. 
Calverly's  workshop.  It  is  fair  to  say  that  The  Builder 
represents  the  labor  of  at  least  five  years.  The  volume  it- 
self is  a  living  monument  to  the  loving  years  of  labor  that 
brought  it  into  being.  And  it  is  a  living  rebuke  to  those 
over-eager,  over-commercialized  writers  who  try  to  hope 
that  a  good  book  can  be  written  in  six  months.'  " 

"The  Builder  took  you  just  a  little  over  five  months," 
said  she,  musingly. 

"Exactly,  I'm  going  to  write  and  tell  that  paper  so." 

"Of  course,  you  aren't  going  to  do  anything  of  the  sort." 

"Well" — he  waved  his  arms — "it  makes  you  wonder  about 
a  lot  of  the  famous  figures  of  history.  What  were  they 
really  doing  when — according  to  the  biographies — they  were 
writing  great  books  or  formulating  great  policies  ?  It's  sure 
they  weren't — not  a  man  among  'em — what  people  are  now 
determined  to  think  them.  It's  the  great  weakness,  I  think. 
We  won't  face  what  are  called  'unpleasant'  truths.  We 
won't  face  life.  They  accept  me  now,  yes.  But  why?  Why, 
by  pretending  I'm  their  kind.  And  I'm  notl  I  won't  be! 
I'm  not  respectable!  .  .  .  What  are  you  smiling  at?" 

"Forgive  me,  dear,  but  it  is  rather  funny.  You're  talking 
exactly  as  father  used  to.  And  I'm  afraid  sometimes,  as 
I  think  it  all  over,  that  they  have  beat  him.  Even  you  and 
I  are  agreeing  to  Mr.  Hitt's  book." 

"I  know.    That's  true." 

"And  they're  going  to  beat  you,  dear.  If  you  can't  be 
avoided  as  one  of  their  heroes,  at  least  they  can  insist  on 
making  you  over  into  one  of  their  familiar  kind." 

"But—" 

"It  isn't  just  the  newspapers,  the  thousands  of  pattern 
books,  the  endless  lecturers.  It's  the  millions  and  millions 
of  mouths  repeating  day  by  day  the  old  words  and  phrases, 
and  rephrasing  the  easy,  comfortable  old  accepted  ideas.  But 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM  403 

it  is  something  when  you  think  what  a  stodgy  old  pattern 
it  would  have  become  by  this  time  if  there  hadn't  been  any 
great  independent  spirits  to  change  it  a  little  now  and 
then." 

"It  leaves  you  so  helpless,  Miriam." 

"At  least,"  said  she,  smiling,  and  rising  to  her  feet,  "we 
can  play  tennis." 

He  looked  up  at  her;  watched  her  slender  lovely  figure 
against  the  bright  blue-and-white  sky;  then  sprang  up  be- 
side her. 

Her  eyes,  a  thought  shyly,  searched  his  face;  found  a 
twinkle  there,  and  a  faint  little  flicker  of  a  smile. 

"In  a  way,  of  course,  they'll  never  beat  you,"  said  she. 
"The  individual  must  count.  It's  only  that  the  rest  of  the 
world  is  so  big." 

"And  meantime,"  said  he,  smiling  now,  as  he  was  so  rap- 
idly learning  to,  "we  can  play  tennis." 


THE  END 


A    000  111  163     2 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stani|>ed  below. 


5  i 1971 


Form  L'J-Series  444 


